


Face of the Sun, Face of the Moon

by honeybee221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Bondage, Dirty Talk, F/F, F/M, Het, Light BDSM, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Character Death, Oral Sex, Original Character(s), PTSD, Panic Attack, Rough Sex, Torture, Whipping, and -- gasp -- lots of homosexuals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-28
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-13 02:46:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 57,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/498581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybee221b/pseuds/honeybee221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unresolved attraction between Sherlock and John comes to a head after Sherlock and Molly are arrested as part of a human tissue crime ring. John and Sherlock infiltrate the group in New York City in attempt to gather evidence against the real criminals and clear Molly's name, but are mistaken for each other, forcing Sherlock to sit on the sidelines as John does the heavy lifting. Throw in Irene Adler, her new wife and a couple of blow jobs and you've got a heck of a mess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My very first attempt at Johnlock slash fiction. I love these two with a white-hot heat. Thanks very much to the lovely [thisprettywren](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thisprettywren/pseuds/thisprettywren) for the beta read and for helping me work out some plot points. All silliness is mine. Please let me know if you see any problems or typos. Thanks for reading!

“Sir.” …  
  
“Hey.” …  
  
…  
  
“Oi, E.T.!” The cabbie _(Pakistani. Likely Karachi. Muslim and pious. British citizen for 25 – no – 30 years. Educated in southeast London. Family man. Smoker, but trying to quit)_ is looking at him through the rearview mirror with a glare.  
  
Sherlock’s eyes focus and he realized he is sitting outside Barts, but he doesn’t know how long it’s been since they arrived at the hospital. He handed the cabbie a bill and leaped out without a word. _Damn it all. This case is frustrating._  
  
\--------------------------  
  
He’d spent the morning convincing D.I. Lestrade it was the husband, but when they finally tracked Walter Jabez down (an estate agent, out showing houses and flats all day), and Lestrade had delivered the news, the man’s face had made it clear that the death of his husband was not only a shock to him, but a blow that he wouldn’t recover from for – well, Sherlock couldn’t estimate the mental recovery rate of someone who had lost a loved one. It was unpredictable. But the man looked – hollow. Sherlock knew the physical effects of shock _(pale skin and blue lips and fingernails, weak breathing and dizziness)_. The look on his face was not that of someone who had just experienced an emotional blow. It was something more. It was something Sherlock had worked his whole life to never have to experience. It was something that he felt a slight twinge of as he watched John speaking softly to Jabez.  
  
Lestrade was on the phone with Sgt. Sally Donovan. She was confirming Jabez’s alibi with the client whose house he had been at first thing that morning. John had moved in to stand beside Jabez (Gay. Married. British mother, Arabic father – possibly Lebanese. Mid-30s. Gym regular. But a fan of fast food and sweet, flavored coffee drinks), who had sunk down into the armchair of this unlived-in apartment, his hands limply lying in his lap.  
  
Next to each other, John and Jabez looked like negative images of each other. Slight men, both of them, short, but John had dishwater blond hair, specked with silver, and grey eyes, where Jabez had dark hair, olive skin and brown eyes. John’s face was open, honest, and clearly concerned while Jabez’s was empty. John retained his military posture, even when he bent towards Jabez and put a comforting hand on his shoulder.  
  
Enough. This wasn’t solving anything.  
  
“John,” Sherlock said, meeting his eyes as he turned to leave. He needed to get back to the body. The body would tell him where he had gone wrong.  
  
John was beside him as he walked out into the grey London mid-morning. His eyes were unfocused.  
  
“John, it’s no good getting emotional. We have to re-examine all the evidence now that we know it’s not Jabez. I will need you to be clear-headed,” Sherlock said, his lips making a stern line as he hailed a cab.  
  
John didn’t meet his eyes as he got in and settled next to Sherlock.  
  
The body of Daryl Venure had been discovered in an industrial area at dawn this morning by a security guard doing a sweep of the grounds around Clausen Industries, a factory and warehouse that made windows and doors. Sherlock directed the cabbie there.  
  
“I don’t know how I could not be affected by how broken that man was. I just watched as he realized that everything he assumed about his whole life was wrong,” John’s voice was getting louder and the tension radiated out of his posture. “He wouldn’t be growing old with his husband. They would never have children. They would never even share …” John stopped as Sherlock grasped the hand that had been emphatically waving around in front of him. John took a deep breath in and out as Sherlock clasped it in both hands, squeezed gently and placed it on John’s knee.  
  
John turned to look at Sherlock, but he turned his attention away, removed his hands and sat forward, steepling them under his chin.  
  
Sherlock had realized months ago that physical contact was the only way to calm John when he was overly emotional. Just a slight amount of pressure – on a hand, or more often, on his good shoulder, which at this moment was too far from Sherlock to be convenient – could quickly force John to return to his baseline calm self if he was disturbed or upset by something Sherlock had left in the kitchen; experiencing an PTSD flashback; or even if he had one of his intense flashes of fury. It was like a reset button and Sherlock was pleased with himself for discovering it.  
  
As he’d said, he needed John’s full attention. He himself was struggling to remain unemotional, not because of the murder – of course not – but because he had been WRONG. He was loathe to admit it, even to himself, but he had to go over every bit of evidence to see what he had missed – much of it surely by now mislabelled or contaminated by the fumbling hands of that simpleton, Anderson.  
  
  
\----------------  
  
Sherlock circled around a spot in a dim alleyway between two pre-fab sheet-metal buildings. The view from the parking lot was partially blocked by a skip and debris, including piles of wooden pallets. Behind him was a chainlink fence that surrounded neat piles of wood, boxes and more wood pallets.  
  
“Do you see it, John?” Sherlock asked, shaking off his unease at misreading the scene earlier.  
  
“All I see is a bit of blood.”  
  
“Correct. A bit. Just a bit. Meaning Daryl Venure was not killed here. He was dumped here later."  
Such an obvious clue. Don’t know how I missed it.  
  
“So, what made you think it had been Walter Jabez who had killed him?”  
  
“The body was mutilated. It seemed personal.”  
  
The image of Jabez, white-faced, with John leaning over him popped into his head for no reason he could think of. He shook it off. He took one final look around and spun toward the waiting cab.  
  
“Wait!” John yelled after him. “Where are you going?”  
  
“Stay here. Question owners of the business and anyone you see lurking around,” Sherlock instructed over his shoulder, but did not stop and did not answer the question.  
  
\-----------------  
  
After tossing the bill at the annoyed cabbie, Sherlock headed straight toward the morgue and Molly.  
  
“Tell me you haven’t done the autopsy on Daryl Venure yet.”  
  
“Hello to you, too,” Molly looked up from her paperwork with a smile.  
  
She waited.  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
  
“Yes. OK. Hello, Molly. How are you?” he asked, with exaggerated sweetness.  
  
Her grin widened. “Well, that will do for now, I suppose. Although we do have a bit of work to do still on your social niceties.” Sherlock dropped the fake smile.  
  
“Where’s John?”  
  
“At the crime scene, interviewing neighbors.”  
  
She pushed the papers she was working on over to him.  
  
“Venure, Daryl, 36, white male, good health, cause of death: Exsanguination due to multiple cuts, the most severe was this one right here,” she pointed to the drawing on her autopsy notes depicting a male human, who had a number of slashes made by her pen, an obvious one on the throat. “It was deep. It severed the carotid, the jugular and almost severed the trachea.”  
  
“I want to look at him,” Sherlock said, remembering about two seconds later to add a “please.”  
  
“Yes, OK. But hurry. I think the funeral home will be here within an hour or so. He’s been gone over by the Yard and by me. Won’t be much useful on him, I’m afraid.”  
  
“Good thing we wasted so much time saying please and thank you, then,” Sherlock said with a growl.  
  
“Big picture, Sherlock, big picture,” she said sweetly.  
  
Molly walked ahead of him, her ponytail swinging. She was much less fun to be around since deciding to play his finishing school teacher. Or maybe it was just because he could not so easily manipulate her, Sherlock thought. The time he had spent camped out in her spare room after his “death” had created a level of trust and familiarity. She was mostly immune to his tricks now, he thought, with not a little bit of pride. She had played her part in the game well, even keeping Sherlock’s secret from John for the whole of the year it took to find and eliminate the threat to him. Rooming with him squashed Molly’s crush faster than anything else could have. No one else besides John had ever been fond of Sherlock after they had spread jam on toast with a knife that had been used for a biology experiment.  
  
It had been just after that little blow up that Molly had given him her first lecture on how his ill manners were partially to blame for allowing Moriarty to place him into such an intractable position. Ever since then, she pushed him to think about the real-time cost of politeness.  
Sherlock watched Molly open the cold storage room door and then pull Daryl Venure’s body out of his drawer.  
  
It still made him impossibly impatient to have to say “please” to most people, but he had to admit, this time, she was right: a few more seconds wouldn’t have made a difference. The body was wiped clean of evidence. As he looked down at the body, cut open with the “Y” incision and sewed back up, he cursed himself. Why hadn’t he looked more closely at the body before?  
  
He remembered standing in the alley. Anderson and Sally were having a conference of idiots against the chain link fence and Lestrade was listing the evidence already bagged. The police photographer was packing up his equipment and John was looking at him, waiting for an impressive deduction, and … that’s where he had sort of gone off the rails. What had it been? John had been standing on the other side of the body, just looking very John-like, wearing a sweater the color and consistency of oatmeal.  
  
He had just got … hazy … and, standing in that alley, looking at the number of cuts on the body and the patches where the skin had been peeled away, he concluded it was a crime committed by someone who knew him, someone who had been hurt by him and wanted to return the favour. He’d dismissed cases before that had bored him, but he felt this time it was more due to being distracted than making a purposeful decision. Irritating weakness. Maybe John was right, he needed to get a bit more sleep.  
  
This time, Sherlock took a closer look at the patches where skin had been peeled away (three 5-inch-long strips, one from the chest and one on each thigh, not raggedly with a knife, but very neat and purposeful with a 10-blade scalpel), when the outer door banged open.  
  
“Shoot. The funeral home is early. I’ll try to delay them for a bit.” Molly scurried out.  
  
Sherlock continued to examine the body (there were also several “x” marks cut into the knees and cheeks -- not deep enough to wound, but just to torture), until he heard Molly raise her voice just as the door to the cold storage room was opened and two men in suits walked in, flashing badges.  
  
He saw a glimpse of Molly shooting him a concerned look before the door closed between them.  
“Mr. Holmes, my name is Agent Furlough and this is Agent Boarder, we’re with Interpol. You are under arrest for the international trafficking of human tissues.”  
  
Sherlock didn’t move. He looked over the agents (Americans, who both wore arrogant expressions and ill-fitting suits that were wrinkled and that showed evidence of at least two days worth of sweat and coffee), examined his options and removed the rubber examination gloves.  
“Gentlemen, I assure you that I have done nothing of the sort. May I ask the source of the charges against me?”  
  
Agent Furlough snorted as he got out his handcuffs.  
  
“The source is our investigation. Mr. Holmes, can you tell us you have a legitimate reason for being in here with a corpse? You have no official function here and no permission from the hospital. You are often carrying items out, and an examination of the records show your visits coincide with the intake of the bodies of John Does.”  
  
Abiding by Molly’s rules of etiquette was going to be near impossible with these idiots.  
  
Nevertheless, he HAD been taking body parts from the morgue for years and if they went to 221b right now, they’d discover a few slivers of human brain soaking in agave nectar, honey and simple syrup, and a ring finger, with the ring still attached, in a saline bath. He’d never really thought about what would happen to him (or Molly) if he got caught.  
  
“That’s quite a leap from ‘You were seen at a place with dead people,’ to ‘You must be selling human body parts,’” Sherlock said while he was roughly cuffed.  
  
Mycroft would have to be notified. It annoyed him to no end, but Mycroft was really very useful when you needed to be sprung from jail, to hide a body (or just a body part) or start (or stop) an international incident. Or in this case, all three.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's got issues -- he's got a crush on a man who doesn't return his feelings and who once forced him to watch his fake suicide. It would be a handful for anyone, but John's handling it -- he really is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 comes from John's POV. I plan to switch back and forth between these two knuckleheads. This chapter was helped along quite a bit by [thisprettywren](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thisprettywren/pseuds/thisprettywren), so I thank her very much for the advice and beta. I am fully responsible for any and all mistakes, and welcome sternly-worded notes about any that you find.
> 
> Retro beta by [HiddenLacuna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenLacuna/pseuds/HiddenLacuna). She's brilliant.

John lay in bed, the morning light just starting to make it an impossibility that he would ever get back to sleep. He had been lying there for hours unable to sleep before he realized it was because there was no clinking of glass pipettes in the kitchen, no violin concertos drifting up the stairs. He used to curse Sherlock for making him lose sleep with the racket he made at all hours – just because the man didn’t sleep himself didn’t mean he should forget that others needed a solid 8 hours to be functioning humans. But somewhere along the way, he’d gotten used to the noises and smells and … the presence of Sherlock downstairs and it had become part of John’s nighttime ritual to lay in bed, trying to deduce exactly what the bloody git was up to before he let his mind quiet down and he drifted off.  
  
He had dozed for a bit around 3 a.m. – but part of him had still been listening for the door to open, and it never had. Around 4:30, he texted Sherlock, just one word: “Alright?” but got no response, which served only to move sleep even farther away. He knew Sherlock was unlikely to respond if he was close to an answer, but the image of Daryl Venure’s mutilated body appeared behind his eyelids – and his husband’s hollowed-out face as he’d said, “Dead? No, that can’t be. We just got married,” - like a marriage certificate was a magic shield that kept the demons at bay.  
  
He had gotten quite good at ignoring certain feelings about Sherlock, though. He hadn’t managed to quash them, but he didn’t allow himself to dwell on the warmth he got when Sherlock opened up to him or the tingles when Sherlock touched him. So, he did the same thing now with the uneasy feeling he had. He pushed away the images of Jabez and his dead husband and swung his legs to the floor, yawning and running his hands through his hair. It was 5:55 a.m. Might as well be productive – or as productive as he could be on no sleep.  
  
John showered and dressed in jeans and a blue stripy jumper – his weekend uniform. He was putting toast in the toaster and scooping a bit of Irish Breakfast tea into the strainer  when he heard the front door open and Sherlock’s tread on the stairs. He said a small “Thank God” as he pulled down Sherlock’s mug – the one with the Sussex Honeybee logo on it – and reached for the kettle. He hadn’t realized just how worried he’d been until now. Despite the 14 months since Sherlock had been back, time had not really healed all wounds. Such as the one inside John’s stomach that opened up whenever Sherlock ran off on his own and didn’t come back for hours at a time. There was always the ghost of a voice that said, _He’s not coming back this time._  
  
Sherlock took off his coat and scarf and tossed it over John’s armchair before making an appearance in the kitchen.  
  
“Case?” John kept his voice light, as he handed him the mug. Sherlock looked rumpled and very put out.  
  
“I WOULD have been working on the case, if Interpol wasn’t lousy with idiots. How is it possible that those supposedly guarding the entirely of our PLANET should have no basic common sense?” Sherlock put the mug down on the kitchen table, dramatically spun back into the living room, and grabbed John’s laptop off the desk before sinking into his chair.  
  
“Hold on. Interpol?” John asked. The few seconds of peace he had felt at hearing Sherlock coming up the stairs was now gone. “Why were you dealing with Interpol?” He picked up Sherlock’s mug and set it in front of him, then hung Sherlock’s coat up before sitting down himself across from Sherlock, toast forgotten in the toaster.  
  
Sherlock was silent as he pulled a thumb drive shaped like Hello Kitty from his pocket and he inserted it into the dock.  
  
“Sherlock.”  
...

“Sherlock.”  
  
No response. He refrained from tossing the hot tea into Sherlock’s lap only because it was his laptop Sherlock held.  
  
He sighed and got up, walking around to take a look at what was on the screen. It looked like police reports. The cadence of the paragraphs had an officious tone, with several misspelled words – and a couple that were just plain wrong. Written by someone who thought he was smarter than he was and often used words he didn’t understand the meaning of. He peered more closely when he read the words “cadaver bone,” “tissue banks” and “organ collection.”  
  
“Did you steal documents from Interpol? Does this have to do with the Jabez case?” John asked, leaning down.  
  
“John, don’t lean over my shoulder.”  
  
“Why not, you do it to me all the time,” John said. Still, he straightened up and moved away.  
  
“It is not about the Jabez case. I’m afraid that Scotland Yard will have to struggle along without me as they continue to NOT find Mr. Venure’s killer. My attentions have, very forcibly, been turned to a much larger matter.”  
  
“Sherlock, you can’t just drop the case. Walter Jabez needs our help. “  
  
No response. He tried another tack.  
  
“Whoever did that to Venure most certainly will kill again.”  
  
“Oh?” Sherlock looked up. “And how did you come to that conclusion?” Sherlock said with a smug look on his face.  
  
Damn. OK, clearly Sherlock knew he was trying to manipulate him into continuing with the case.

He actually had no idea why Venure was killed or if the murderer was likely to repeat his act.

Those “x”s danced in his head, though, and he wouldn’t let Sherlock dismiss it. But he let it drop for now.  
  
“OK, then tell me what’s so bloody important.”  
  
“An international human tissue trade ring,” Sherlock said, a mad grin on his face.  
  
John shivered. _God, this man was so … off his damned rocker is the phrase that comes to mind._

“And Interpol thinks the ring is based out of London?” John asked.  
  
“No, New York, but they thought they had come across a source of tissue when some overly nosy lab rat reported missing body parts from Barts.”  
  
John sat up straight. _Oh, no._  
  
“You were arrested for stealing body parts?” Oh God, what’s in the fridge right now? Would he have to endure another search of the apartment? Mrs. Hudson was going to be so upset.  
  
“Listen, John. I said tissue, not body parts. But, yes, I was arrested. Molly, too. We spent a very uncomfortable 8 hours at the headquarters of the City of London police speaking with some inept Americans regarding the matter.”  
  
Oh, poor Molly. He could just picture her frightened little face --  like a bunny, eyes darting this way and that. Damn it all. He could forgive Sherlock for most things he got himself into, but a little flare of anger popped up, thinking Sherlock had gotten Molly busted for giving him body parts. Still, they must have been released.  
  
“How did you convince them to let you go?”  
  
“I didn’t,” he said, setting his mouth in a firm line.  
  
“Mycroft,” John said, matter-of-factly.  
  
“Yes, and he could have been a bit more efficient about it. Although my time there was well-spent,” he said, smugly pointing at the computer screen.  
  
John squashed the small smile that threatened to make an appearance at the thought of Sherlock copying documents right under the agents’ noses.  
  
Sherlock turned back to the computer.  
  
“Is Mycroft smoothing things over with Barts for Molly?”  
  
“No idea.”  
  
The tiny flame was back. He leaned towards Sherlock, carefully keeping his voice quiet. It was still early, after all, and Mrs. Hudson was probably still sleeping.  
  
“Sherlock, it’s YOUR fault she was arrested and spent all last night being questioned as a  
suspect in an international crime ring. You can at least pretend to care if she also loses her job,” John said.  
  
“Molly Hooper can take care of herself. She certainly did herself proud last night,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Did she?  
  
“Now who’s underestimating her?” Sherlock said, and shot a glance at John. “Molly handled herself admirably. She rightly saw the agents were incapable of seeing reason and said nothing. She even passed me this thumb drive before we were separated.”  
  
John sighed.  
  
“That doesn’t mean she wasn’t scared out of her head,” John said. “Drink your tea.”  
  
He picked up his phone and texted Mycroft.  
  
___________________  
To: MH  
Where is Molly? – JW  
6:27 a.m., Jan. 14, 2012  
____________________  
  
  
“She’s still in custody,” Sherlock said. John didn’t know how he did that. Sherlock didn’t look up, but a small pained look crossed his face before it cleared quickly.  
  
The tiny flame blew up into an inferno. However, he held his tongue. It seemed like every time he had lost his shit with Sherlock and stormed off, something bad happened. He was determined not to continue that cycle.  
  
“Sherlock, why were you released and she wasn’t? No one even searched the flat and you actually have stolen body parts here.”  
  
Sherlock looked at John, and said, with much forbearance, “As I said. Mycroft. Plus, they have absolutely no evidence that I am selling human tissues.”  
  
“And he left her holding the bag?” John wondered how close he was to a stroke. He really should get his blood pressure checked.  
  
Sherlock leveled his gaze at him.

“You didn’t sleep last night.”  
  
“THAT is not the point,” John said between gritted teeth. “Molly has asked ‘How high’ every time you have ever said ‘Jump.’ She put her job on the line giving you room and materials for your experiments, long before Interpol was involved.”  
  
John knew he was working himself into what Sherlock referred to as “a right strop,” but he didn’t care. He was exhausted, physically, sure, but also emotionally. He was tired of having to explain basic human behaviors to this man-child. “And you know that she cares about you. All those things added up mean that even if you can’t dredge up enough human emotion to return the feeling, you should at least consider her someone worthy of your time and consideration when she has been jailed due to your actions.”  
  
Sherlock continued to gaze at him with arresting blue eyes. My God, John thought, he’s probably on his 29th hour without sleep, he spent last night being interrogated, and he still looks like he stepped from a Fashion Week runway show. Tailored suit made of some material – well, material John probably would never feel against his skin, that’s for sure – that accented all the right spots; dark curls tousled as if he had a professional just around the corner out of sight; and cheekbones that gave his face an angular, alien quality that made him appear different from every angle. Oh, great, Watson, he thought. A perfect response to your perfect prat of a flatmate is to admire his perfect bloody cheekbones. I really need to get laid. But I’d settle for a wank and a kip.  
  
Sherlock closed the laptop and put it on the table, next to his untouched tea. John watched as he leaned forward to put his hand on his knee for the second time in two days and he quickly stood to move away.  
  
“No.”  
  
“No?” Sherlock looked at him calmly.  
  
Bloody fucking hell, John thought. It was bad enough Sherlock had emotionally scarred him for life, plagued him with insomnia, and cockblocked the hell out of him. John realized that Sherlock probably could see the attraction written all over him, and how much he WANTED Sherlock’s hands on him, but John very much NEEDED Sherlock to not touch him. If Sherlock kept his hands off, John knew he could control his own feelings. He didn’t really understand Sherlock’s end game, but he certainly wasn’t going to allow Sherlock to use his own little crush against him. John channeled his annoyance at his own unhealthy obsession toward the skinny git. He stood out of reach and pointed emphatically.  
  
“No – you may not try your little ‘touch therapy’ move on me this morning. I am fully aware of your methods of weaselling out of conversations you don’t want to have.”  
  
He didn’t add, but thought: _Take your little mindfuck games somewhere else._  
  
Sherlock gazed intently at him, but John would not be cowed. He returned the look until his phone beeped.  
  
_______________  
From: MH  
Molly is unfortunately facing serious charges. Apparently, there are video recordings. I am sending a lawyer to her preliminary hearing. - MH  
6:32 a.m., Jan. 14, 2012  
________________  
  
  
John didn’t know what to do. So he did what he did best – he seethed. And worried. His phone beeped again.  
  
________________  
From: MH  
Tell Sherlock to stop trying to hack into Interpol’s server. He’s not covering his tracks as well as he thinks and my influence would not be enough to ensure his release from custody twice in one day. – MH  
6:33 a.m., Jan. 14, 2012  
_________________  
  
  
“Sherlock, are you using MY laptop to hack into Interpol’s server?” John stomped over to him and snatched the computer away. Sherlock’s face twisted.  
  
“THINK, John. This is a network of police that, despite one or two morons, has manpower, resources and information world-wide. If I’m going to infiltrate this crime ring, where better to start than with the information already gathered?”  
  
“You are not a computer expert. If Mycroft can tell you’re hacking in, don’t you think that Interpol can? Wait – infiltrate? What are you planning to do?”  
  
“Posing as exactly who Interpol assumed I was and allow them to believe Molly is my connection for fresh corpses – determine the sources of tissues and the buyers of said tissues, and turn them over to the authorities.”  
  
“No, no, no. You cannot push Molly into the path of a bus carrying international criminals. Besides, she’s still in custody, how is she going to help?”  
  
Sherlock jerked the laptop back out of John’s hands and began typing and creating new documents.  
  
“That’s what Mycroft is for. He loves to throw his weight around,” at that, Sherlock smirked. “Let him throw it around for me this once.”  
  
Sherlock removed the flash drive, jumped up and ran into his room.  
  
“Did you not hear me just now when I said you have to stop taking advantage of her?”  
  
John could hear doors and drawers being thrown open in Sherlock’s room.  
  
“How about if I say ‘Please’ when I suggest she work with me?” Sherlock’s voice came through the bedroom doorway.  
  
“You are the most NOT funny person on the planet.”  
  
Sherlock came out of his room carrying a small, sleek bag in dark grey. John stomach did a little lurch.  
  
“Where are you going?”

Sherlock sped around the room, collecting papers, his laptop and coat and scarf.

"Ukraine, of course. You need anything from the black market?”

John was incredulous.  
  
“You can’t go to the regular market for milk and tea but you can pick up a knock-off Kate Spade bag in Ukraine?”  
  
Sherlock ignored that and moved toward the door.  
  
“WAIT,” John yelled. Sherlock froze.  
  
John searched for something that might change Sherlock’s mind. He felt slightly panicky about Sherlock taking off for Ukraine to search for men who stripped humans for parts. He couldn’t think of anything. Sherlock was staring at him now, which was not helping his thoughts settle. He hated feeling this way and he hated that Sherlock knew how he felt. A weakness.  
  
“My best lead is in Ukraine. I promise to keep Molly’s involvement to a minimum,” Sherlock said, conciliatorily. “This is how I will clear her.”  
  
Did he really think this was all about Molly? Could he really not see what an utter mess John had been in the last year? Well, maybe he didn’t really know how John felt. He was surprised. He just always assumed Sherlock could see see -- and dismissed -- John’s attraction and affection. Not to mention the baggage he carried around after being abandoned by the man for a year. But maybe it was a blind spot. Most emotions were for Sherlock. John was relieved that the silly hearts and flowers were invisible. Soon, John’s feelings would recede (he hoped) and Sherlock would be none the wiser.  
  
John gave a slight nod.  
  
Please come back, he wanted to say, but it sounded melodramatic even in his own head and the only answer he was likely to get was an eye roll. In fact, he wanted to roll his eyes at himself. What came out was, “We could use a DVR. If you are offered electronic goods in a shady back alley.”  
  
Sherlock’s lips gave a slight twitch. He tilted his head a bit, and then twirled around and was gone.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock puts together his plan for tracking down the real criminals who deal in human tissues, but his brain is cranking over like an old Chevy on a winter's morning. And John walks around the flat with his shirt off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3! Thanks again go to the lovely [ thisprettywren](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thisprettywren/pseuds/thisprettywren) for the beta and all the advice. She encouraged me to rewrite this entire chapter and made it infinitely better than it had been. That's why I keep company with women smarter than me, folks.  
> Speaking of smarter than me, if you see a mistake or typo, please let me know and I will fix it right away. Thanks for reading!
> 
> Retro beta'd by the lovely and amazing [ HiddenLacuna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenLacuna/pseuds/HiddenLacuna).

Sherlock saw Molly arrive home from a dim corner of her back garden. She didn’t even blink when he knocked lightly on her window; just looked at him, exhausted. _(Red eyes, puffy skin, lips swollen from hours of worrying them.)_  
  
“I don’t — Sherlock, I just want to go to bed,” Molly said. Nevertheless, she turned and walked back into the apartment, leaving the door open behind her. He followed her.  
  
“I need your help,” he told her. He turned on the tea kettle on his way through the kitchen and got down two mugs.  
She just snorted. But he could tell she was listening.  
  
He explained his plan to her as he made two cups of the horrible raspberry tea she favoured.  
  
She sat on the sofa, eyes staring unseeingly. He pressed the mug into her hands.  
  
“Erh. How can you — you can’t prove you are not part of a crime ring by joining the crime ring,” she said, eyes still unfixed, but at least taking a sip.  
  
“I’m not trying to prove I am not guilty, Mycroft’s attorneys have already taken care of me. I’m trying to prove you are not guilty. My testimony will mean little to them. Even if Mycroft’s sharks are able to get the charges against you dropped, the hospital is not likely to employ a pathologist who has been linked to selling human tissues. You are, after all, on video handing out body parts like Halloween treats.”  
  
Her eyes welled up, but don’t spill over.  
  
He waited for her to lash out at him. John was right (although he was unlikely to tell him that). He had manipulated Molly for years to giving him body parts, chemicals, and even equipment she wasn’t supposed to. But, as usual, Molly refused to find him at fault. He tried to think how she would like to be comforted. He heard John’s voice in his head telling him to apologize.

“I’m sorry I got you into this, Molly.”  
  
She finally looked at him. Her eyes focused and she seemed to make a decision.

“I don’t know what I can do to help. I’ve been put on administrative leave while I’m under investigation,” Molly said.  
  
“Well then, you’ll have a lot of free time. I’ll need to you go to this address,” he handed her a piece of paper, “and get a new ID.”  
  
“You want me to get a fake ID to be someone else?” she smiled for the first time in many hours. “Can I be Natasha Fatale?”  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. She had forced him, on more than one occasion, to watch old “Rocky and Bullwinkle” cartoons. Molly’s love of animation knew no boundaries of time or borders.

“Your Russian accent is atrocious. Make it an unassuming name.”

Molly’s grin didn’t die.  
  
“OK, Sherlock. I’ll ask if they have a sense of humour for you while I’m there.”

“Please do. And ask the wizard for a brain for yourself.”

She stuck out her tongue at him.  
  
“Brilliant retort,” he smirked.  
  
“The biggest issue, with you stuck here, is how to get human tissues that I can use as a calling card when making connections.”  
  
“Um, we can contact Mike?” Molly said, but it was more of a question than a statement.  
“No. The hospital will surely be watching the morgue more carefully now,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Yes, but he has about a dozen cadavers that his students use for dissection practice. They just came in at the start of the term.”  
  
Sherlock smiled. He, not for the first time, thought that trusting Molly had been one of his better decisions. He explained the rest of the plan to her.  
  
\------------------------  
  
His dark hair and height allowed him to blend in a bit in Ukraine. But because of the fact that he spoke Russian (not flawlessly), but not Ukrainian, he was concerned that the meeting he’d set up with an employee of a morgue in the Nikolaev shipbuilding district near the Black Sea could be derailed if the contact was the jumpy type.  
  
He sat down at an outdoor table at a café to do some more research. Becoming an expert on human tissue trafficking might help tonight go more smoothly.  
  
One article described “human sock puppets” — corpses stripped of their reusable parts. It was more common for medical supply companies to take just skin, bone and other tissues from unclaimed bodies. The really bold criminals took from bodies that had families to bury them.

An expose written by the International Consortium of Investigative Journalists reported that the U.S. was both the biggest market and biggest source of human tissue, where 2 million products created from human tissue are sold every year.  
  
His thoughts drifted as he remembered his argument with John.  
  
He knew John was still upset about his time away, or as John called it “That time you were dead.” His protocol for daily activity involved several check-ins with John. These were camouflaged as Sherlock needing John for something — the small deceptions were necessary to spare John from feeling both panic at being alone and embarrassment for his compromised emotional state.  
  
While in custody, however, his phone had been confiscated, and he hadn’t been able to contact John. The check-ins, frankly, were comforting to Sherlock, too. After all, he had spent a year working to protect John, following him from a distance when he was in London and watching him through Mycroft’s cameras when forced to leave the city. The itch to know he was safe at all times still niggled at the back of his mind whenever they were not in the same room.  
  
And he actually had not intended to go to Ukraine alone and leave John behind. But he had been so annoying about Molly, accused him of being unfeeling, and had locked on him with that steady stare — well, he’d frankly had a strange physical sensation. It had made him want to just leave the flat as soon as possible. Maybe he was getting sick? Yes, his throat did sort of feel tight, come to think of it.  
  
Back to work. The faster he did his work here, the faster he could get home to hot tea with honey. And other comforting things.  
  
  
\-----------------------------  
  
After a day back at 221b, collating the information he had obtained in Ukraine, Sherlock was still at a loss for what his next step should be. The trade was massive. He could literally throw a dart at a map and come up with a place that had a thriving human tissues trade. He needed to focus on his priority and set an objective.  
  
He was still having trouble getting his thoughts to coalesce. What was wrong with him? He’d hadn’t developed an illness, but he still felt off. Like his brain was on the outside of his body, telegraphing information in over unreliable lines.  
  
John pounded down the stairs carrying his laundry basket in front of him. He wasn’t wearing a shirt.  
  
“Got laundry? I’m doing a load and you’d might as well just hand them over.”  
  
A second of taking in the sight in front of him and Sherlock became very fixated on the laptop keyboard.  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, John. Very little of my clothing is machine washable.”  
  
“True, Mr. Dolce and Gabbana, but it’s strange how I usually fish at least a couple of pairs of your fancy boxer briefs out of my clean clothes.”  
  
Sherlock thought of John holding his underwear and decided they had covered this topic as much as he cared for.  
  
“I appreciate your offer, but no thank you,” Sherlock said.  
  
John looked surprised.  
  
“Molly’s lessons in manners are coming along nicely,” he said with a smirk, and then headed downstairs to the washing machine.  
  
Now, where was he?  
  
Oh yes. Focusing. Setting an objective. He only managed to focus for 67 seconds before he heard John — shirtless John — coming back up the stairs.  
  
“If you are going to insist on thundering back and forth through here, you might as well listen.”  
“Listen to what?” John asked.  
  
He should have waited until John was fully dressed to start a conversation.  
  
“I need to talk out this case. My original idea was to map out the players, track their communication and transportation, and turn over the information to the authorities, all the while pretending as if Molly and I had been working on this case from the start. Now, I know that their reach is extensive and just as wide as it is deep. In order to make a deep impact, I will have to strike efficiently.”  
  
“Well, you said Ukraine is the source for much of the trade.”  
  
"Yes, but there’s no central area where most of the activity is focused. It is too spread out,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Give me your documents and let me take a look at them.”  
  
John sat in the armchair opposite and began reading. Sherlock took a moment to consider the view and his reaction to it. Because there was no doubt he was having a physical reaction to seeing John sit across from him in a pair of dark jeans and nothing else. Increased pulse and rapid heartbeat, tingly feeling in his extremities. Add that to his inability to focus his thoughts and there were a number of medical ailments that could be plaguing him. However — if you factor in that the symptoms — _oh God_. The symptoms were increased by his proximity to John and his chest hair and his fit arms and his lovely little tummy and his adorable bare feet.  
  
Sherlock mentally swore.  
  
He got up and walked straight into his room and shut the door.  
  
He’d never in his life even thought the phrase “lovely little tummy.” He knew that the feelings described as “love” or “lust” were the result of chemicals being released in the brain. Logically, he knew the biology behind what most people would simply, stupidly allow to wash over them. What most people would write poetry and songs about. What many people would, and did, kill for. He was not most people. Time for an experiment.  
  
He sat at the foot of his bed and thought about Molly, the way she used to make moon eyes at him. Made note of his heartbeats and breaths per minute.  
  
He pictured himself at a crime scene. He added some gore and a locked room. A crime scene in a locked room with no suspects and no physical signs of a suspect. Made a mental note.  
  
Thought about the only person he’d ever had sex with, his — well, boyfriend, for lack of a better term – in university, Victor Trevor. Made a note of his physical reaction.  
  
Thought about Irene Adler — a person he had found attractive, at least intellectually — and someone he had known more recently than Victor — since he knew John. Made a mental note.  
Thought about a person he considered a friend — Mrs. Hudson. Recorded his reaction, or lack thereof.  
  
Thought of –  
  
“Sherlock,” John yelled from the living room. “What about these Bangkok blokes? Do you have any more information on them?”  
  
The image of shirtless John suddenly joined him on the bed and Sherlock’s toes curled into the carpet. John rarely entered the bedroom. He had no mental associations with John attached to anything in the room. His scent was not on the bed sheets. Nevertheless. He noted his heart rate was definitely elevated — many beats per minute above where it had been when thinking about Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Victor, Irene, close to even with the crime scene — but he was having trouble counting breaths because he felt as if the air had been pumped from the room.

The phantom John’s hands reached for him.  
  
He knew if he was in a CT scan machine now, his brain would be lighting up in the pleasure centers. He knew dopamine was flooding through him. He knew that his eyes were dilated and capillaries were moving minutely closer to the surface of his skin.  
He knew.  
  
He knew this was the reason he was having trouble making connections, why John standing over Daryl Venure’s body had made Sherlock miss obvious clues. He didn’t know why this had happened now, after knowing John for almost three years.  
  
And he knew that none of it mattered. John would have no interest in starting a physical relationship. He didn’t even want him to touch him on the knee.  
  
It was a relief, actually. He waved his hands violently and forced away the phantom John. He was annoyed at himself for developing such a mundane weakness. It could greatly complicate and compromise not only his work, but also his living situation and his already-compromised friendship with John. However, now that he’d identified the problem, he could get back to work.  
  
And he had no doubt that he could do that. Yes, he had admittedly been emotionally and sexually fixated on Victor at one point, but he had been young and vulnerable. If his year away had proved anything, it was that he didn’t _need_ John. And the 10 years since Victor, he’d certainly proved that he didn’t need sex.  
  
However, while he knew he could live without John, it was a close call on whether he would choose to ever again. Life — not just the work — was infinitely brighter with John puttering around 221b. _(After leaving Molly’s apartment, moving through a series of dirty bolt holes; cold beans out of the tin; the even colder feeling that crept up on him while watching John grieve.)_  
In order to protect his current way of life, he would create parameters for a life with John as coworker first, flatmate second, and friend third. Nothing further.  
  
Rule one: No touching. Which certainly wouldn’t be a problem since John had made it clear that it wasn’t Sherlock’s place to provide comfort. Rule two: Cut down personal time/outside activities with John. He relied on John far too heavily for entertainment and comfort. It was a shame and it certainly would damage the rebuilding effort that he had been making to regain his trust. But it couldn’t be helped. He needed to clear out the muck that had been clogging his brain.

Right. That sorted, he opened the door and went out to answer John’s question.  
  
\---------------------------------

  
John pointed out three instances of one name; Simon Frost. Once the name was reported by agents in America as a person of interest, he had been mentioned as a contact by the Ukrainian man Sherlock had spoken with in person, and once by a suspect who had been questioned in Mali. He was based in New York City. It wasn’t a lot, but it was a start.  
  
“And this article says New York is certainly a hub,” John said.  
  
Sherlock got out the disposable phone he’d purchased on the way home from the airport and called the matching one that Molly possessed.  
  
“I’m going to go to New York to make contact with someone I think might be high up in the organization,” Sherlock said. “Yes, now. I also need you to start the second part of the plan — a credit card in your new name, and then hire an unmarked refrigerated truck and rent a small space with a walk-in refrigerator or some other cooling system. It doesn’t have to be immediately, we have a few days before I can make contact, probably. I will text you some contacts who can help.”  
  
He hung up without waiting for her response.  
  
“You’re going right away?” John asked.  
  
“Of course.”  
  
Right now was the perfect time to be 5,500 kilometres and 8 hours away from John, who, while now wearing a grey T-shirt with an unbuttoned shirt over it, still didn’t have any socks or shoes on. Sherlock could find no evolutionary reason that bare feet would prompt a sexual response. But there you go. Human physiology — a marvel.  
  
“Right,” John said with a determined look on his face. He got out his phone.  
  
“Hi, Sarah. I’m sorry, but I’m not feeling good. I just wanted to tell you to take my name off the list for sub work for the next couple of days. No, I’m sure it’s nothing, but I don’t want to spread it around. Yes, I will. Cheers.”  
  
“You’re not coming,” Sherlock said. An order, not a question.  
  
“Like hell I’m not.” He got up and walked towards the stairs. “I can be packed in 15.”  
  
Well, Sherlock could be packed in 10. He hurried to his room. He filled his bag with things he had just removed from it a day ago.  
  
 _Eight minutes. Ha._  
  
He came out into the living room just was John was coming down the stairs carrying a matte black leather satchel — his laptop bag — and a nice olive green duffle bag.  
  
“John, there’s no reason for you to go. They might be aware of me working with a woman, but there’s no reason to draw their attention to you. I’m just going to make a contact and convince them we can set up a branch of the organization here.”  
  
“And think how that will be easier to do with a doctor with you.”  
  
“You are a family doctor at a clinic. You never come into contact with dead people.”  
  
“If you try to leave here without me, I’ll have a fresh body I can deliver to them myself,” John said with a determined glint in his eye.  
  
Sherlock decided it was time to press some buttons.  
  
“This isn’t the time to traipse around Central Park and Times Square with a camera around your neck. You are not necessary for this, John.”  
  
John blinked, but the jab didn’t take the wind out of his sails. He looked at him suspiciously. “Why won’t you let me help on this case? Why do you keep leaving me behind?”  
  
Sherlock went for the diversion in order to distract from the heat rising to his cheeks.  
  
“Don’t be dull, John, we’re not the Hardy Boys. Why don’t you continue to work on the Venure case? I’ll be back in four days.”  
  
Sherlock tried to skirt around him.  
  
John quickly stepped into his path. He looked at him through slitted eyes.  
  
“You are trying to divert me. It won’t work,” John said. He was getting angry now.  
  
Sherlock pulled himself up to his full height and looked down his nose at John.  
  
“It’s a simple case. You are planning on spending thousands of dollars on a last-minute plane ticket? It’s not dangerous and I can HANDLE IT ALONE.”  
  
“Alone is stupid,” John said. “You keep pushing me away and you’re going to die alone someday because I wasn’t there to watch your back.”  
  
Sherlock raised his voice. “Everyone dies alone.”  
  
John stared at him. His left hand trembled slightly. Sherlock thinks he might have crossed a line.  
  
“Is that what you think?” John yelled. He gave a sarcastic little nod and visibly tried to control his voice. “Good. No, no, that’s great,” he said. “Then I won’t have to watch you die for a second time.”  
  
The seconds tick by. It’s a bright day for once. John’s eyes looked bluer than normal and the flecks of gray in his hair shone silver.  
  
Sherlock finally spoke, but softer this time. “I am not hiding anything from you, John,” _Well, nothing that you need to ever know about._ “This isn’t — it’s not like with Moriarty.”  
  
A shadow fell across them.  
  
“Well, that’s a relief. I’m still cleaning up from the last time,” Mycroft said from the doorway.  
  
“Mycroft,” Sherlock said, at once annoyed at the intrusion, but welcoming the diversion. “We’d invite you in, but we’re on our way out.”  
  
“I do hope it’s not to run headlong into an international crime ring. Don’t you think it’s a bit premature for that?”  
  
Sherlock looked at John, who had shifted his angry glare to Mycroft. The whole feeling in the room had changed. It was now John and Sherlock against a common enemy.  
  
“After all, you know nothing about Simon Frost and even less about his associates. More importantly, you don’t have anyone in the American government to get you out of scrapes.”  
  
John said nothing, but looked pointedly at Sherlock. _Scrapes_. Mycroft was trying to bait him by treating him like a child.  
  
Mycroft hung the crook of his ever-present umbrella on the back of the desk chair as he crossed to the window and looked down at the street. He was, as ever, dressed in a slim brown three-piece suit with a fine pattern to it.  
  
Sherlock clenched his jaw. _Damn his brother. So smug and self-righteous._  
  
“Actually, I do have contacts other than you, you know. I’m not going in without a support system.”  
  
“Mm. Surely you can’t mean Ms Adler. Or has she hyphenated her name now that she’s married?”  
  
John raised an eyebrow, but that was all. Sherlock assumed he would be much more upset at the mention of Irene.  
  
“I believe she and Ms Bearux have both kept their names,” Sherlock nonchalantly said.  
  
“Yes,” Mycroft simpered. “So modern. Well, more power to them. There’s nothing like love.” At this, he shot a quick glance at John, who had yet to actually speak to him. John had never really forgiven Mycroft for knowing Sherlock was alive and not telling him. He didn’t bother with pleasantries anymore.  
  
In fact, it looked like he’d had just about enough.  
  
“Mycroft, we really should be going,” John said, moving toward him. He reached for the umbrella.

He had one hand around it when Mycroft shouted and suddenly was directly in front of John, and Sherlock sharply barked “John!”  
  
John shifted slightly into a fighting posture as Mycroft put one hand on the umbrella and one on his shoulder.  
  
“Release,” Mycroft ordered, his eyes boring into John’s, his nose 10 centimetres from John’s.

Sherlock watched as they did a slight dance — as Mycroft tugged at the umbrella, John put a protective hand out, touching Mycroft’s side and they did a half turn so that when Mycroft was closer to the door, John released the umbrella and Mycroft moved to walk out the door.  
  
“John, please move away from the window,” Sherlock said. “At least until the agents outside can see Mycroft is unharmed.”  
  
John gave a backwards glance out the window as he walked across the living room.

“Be careful in New York, boys, and keep in mind I don’t have a lot of pull with the NYPD,” Mycroft’s voice floated from the stairwell.  
  
John grinned at Sherlock as the front door shut.  
  
“Well, that’s the last-minute tickets sorted,” as he held up Mycroft’s wallet. “Thanks for the pickpocket lessons.”  
  
He’d never get out of here without John now. Sherlock was surprised to feel relief at the thought. He averted his eyes in hopes that John wouldn’t notice blackened pupils and rosy cheeks.  
  
“I didn’t mean for your final exam to be on the most dangerous man in Britain,” Sherlock said. His tone did not match his smirk. “How long had you been planning that?”  
  
“Since you told me that his umbrella wasn’t just an umbrella.”  
  
John was right. He had no business going anywhere without this foolishly brave man. He ducked down and picked up his bag.  
  
“So much to do, John; we’d best be off.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock get to NYC and meet Simon Frost, weirdo leader of the crime ring that deals in human tissues. They roll with an identity mixup. Despite being unhappy without his warm gun, John is fast on his feet and looks adorable in a hat, and Simon eats it up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks go out to many people, including all the folks in the innercircle for general badassery and inspiration.
> 
> Thanks for beta work to [ thisprettywren](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thisprettywren/pseuds/thisprettywren) and to [airynothing](http://archiveofourown.org/users/airynothing/pseuds/airynothing).
> 
> Also, [pennypaperbrain](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pennypaperbrain/pseuds/pennypaperbrain) gave me advice on a couple of British terms, so cheers!
> 
> Retro beta'd by the lovely and amazing [HiddenLacuna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenLacuna/pseuds/HiddenLacuna).

At 40,000 feet, Sherlock snoozing quietly beside him, John had realized that Sherlock hadn’t been laying out an elaborate ruse (no fake phone calls to lead him away). It had been a simple statement: He didn’t want John to come with him. John wasn’t sure if that made him feel better or worse.  
  
Trust issues, he could hear his therapist, Ella, say.  
  
On the flight, Sherlock had read a little about the latest study on hive colony collapse and flipped through a pathology journal, but he didn’t deign to speak to John about the case or about much at all. Not that John wasn’t over the moon that he hadn’t been manic and annoying for the entire 8-hour flight, but John hadn’t slept at all and had about six cups of coffee in him.  
  
“What in God’s name are they going on about?” John asked. Every time a cab next to theirs on 6th Avenue honked, it felt like the noise was linked directly to his nerves and he jumped and jangled.  
  
Sherlock, as usual, said nothing. John had fought so hard to be here, but he had no gun and it made him feel blind and disoriented.  
  
He stole a look at Sherlock. Even if he didn’t use that long, posh coat as armor, his expression alone would make him seem impregnable. It had been more than three days since he told Sherlock to keep his hands to himself. Sherlock had not so much as even brushed shoulders with him since then. John refused to be disappointed. He was too damn jittery to add that element into the cement mixer of emotions he was tumbling in.  
  
I’m a mess. The abandonment panic, the attraction, the need to mother and protect Sherlock, all while being completely unable to trust the man. He was sure Ella would have a field day if he hinted at any of it.  
  
He still didn’t know why Sherlock hadn’t wanted him in New York, but he was here now and he would help Sherlock as best he could. Or as best as he would allow him. Time for Sherlock to share some information.  
  
“So, Simon Frost. What do we know about him?”  
  
Sherlock turned his head away from the tall buildings they were speeding past and toward John. He seemed to see him for the first time in hours.  
“John, please tell me why you are wearing that.”  
  
“What, the hat? You don’t like it?” John had changed at the hotel (a nice big suite at the James in Midtown courtesy of one Mycroft Holmes). John was surprised the card hadn’t been cancelled, but then again, Mycroft wouldn’t give up a way to track their movements.  
  
He thought he looked a bit dashing. It was a new suit – something lined for warmth and a bit tweedy, with a bowtie. The low-profile brown flatcap complemented the outfit, but it wasn’t just for show - it had little hidden earflaps in case he had to sit about in the biting wind on a stakeout.  
  
“You look like Doctor Who,” Sherlock said with a half smile.  
  
“Piss off,” John laughed despite himself. He was surprised Sherlock hadn’t deleted Doctor Who. “We can’t all be kitted out in Spencer Hart.”  
  
Sherlock was, of course, wearing a well-tailored dark suit. The maroon shirt had a very fine lilac pinstripe. Despite the flight, it still looked crisp and Sherlock himself looked – enough, John. Think about something else.  
  
“Tell me where we’re going.”  
  
“We are going to meet Simon Frost. Late 30s. A member of a small-time crime family from New York. However, about two years ago, he was forced out. The rumour mill said his father had come to the conclusion that he was too ambitious and there was a rift. That’s when he became the person to report to for this organization. My contact says Frost is erratic and cruel. The kind of man who will take your watch or your wife with a smile.”  
  
“Well, thank God I don’t have a watch or a wife or I would be having kittens right now.”  
  
“Nevertheless, I’m sure we’ll have something he’ll be interested in.”  
  
“Are we going in there with your grisly little gifts and your disarming smile as our only assets? You know I don’t have a gun with me.”  
Sherlock said nothing, but gave him an appraising look.  
  
“I’m sure you’ll think of something.”  
  
“It’s America. Maybe I can lift one from a tourist.”  
  
There was that smile. Disarming. Brilliant. Unlikely and all the more amazing for it. John could think of a million words to describe it. When it was directed at him, it felt like sunshine after a long winter, and he just liked to soak it in.  
  
“We’re meeting the leader of an international crime ring in the middle of Times Square?” John asked as he struggled with a handful of bills, trying to figure out how much to pay the cabbie.  
  
“I was told to wait here and we would be picked up.”  
  
“Told by who?” John pressed.  
  
“Whom,” Sherlock corrected. John rolled his eyes. “Remember the case I mentioned that took place in a horrid industrial corner of New Jersey -- the one with the corporate espionage and the chemical burns?”  
  
John nodded. “The woman with the faked fingerprints.”  
  
“A contact from that case agreed to vouch for our criminal prowess and act as intermediary.”  
  
People poured around them in a never-ending human stream and the huge flashing billboards were an assault on the senses. The drivers cruising by continued to honk pointlessly.  
  
John slowly spun in a circle and took it all in.  
  
“And you said there’d be no time for acting like a tourist.”  
  
“There’s not. Look sharp.”  
  
John looked back down to see a black Honda Civic pull to the kerb.  
  
A tall, immaculately dressed blond man with a broad, friendly grin got out of the passenger side.  
  
“Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson? Please come with me, gentlemen. Mr. Frost is waiting.”  
  
Sherlock and John got into the back seat. Another man who was less friendly nodded at them from the rearview mirror, but said nothing.  
The blonde man handed them black sleep masks.  
  
“Please put these on. Sorry to ruin your sightseeing, but we can’t be too careful,” he said, still all smiles. “I’m Caleb Ulises. Just sit back and relax. We’ll be there in a few.”  
They did as instructed. John tried to pay attention to the drive – keep track of the time and the turns, but he gave up after the eighth turn. He was sure Sherlock had a more solid grip on it. No one said anything.  
  
When they stopped for good inside some structure, Caleb said, “We’re here, you can remove your blindfolds.”  
  
John got out of the car in a small garage. The driver and Caleb motioned for John and Sherlock to walk ahead of them through a door into a house. They walked down a narrow hallway with beige wall-to-wall and went into a room to the right. It was also narrow, but with hardwood floors covered with a cheap red oriental carpet and a fireplace to the right of the doorway with a large framed mirror hanging above it. A sofa and two armchairs were clustered in a loose half-circle around the fireplace.  
  
“You can wait here. I’m sure Simon will be here soon,” Caleb said. “Now, I’m sorry for a bit more unpleasantness, but if you could please place your hands on the wall?”  
  
They turned and put their hands on the wall that was decorated with a bland pastoral scene.  
  
Caleb patted them down efficiently and took their phones and the contact lens case that carried human corneas. Sherlock had transported it in a small plastic container with a small reusable frozen gel pack.  
  
“Sorry, but your phones will be returned,” Caleb said pleasantly, and walked out, shutting the door behind him. The lock clicked.  
  
John looked about, but couldn’t see any cameras. He sat on the chair that faced the door and tried to look casual as he scanned under the couch and the chair opposite but still saw nothing.  
  
“How…” Sherlock began. John shot him a look and shook his head, once.  
  
Sherlock looked perturbed.  
  
“There are no cameras in here.”  
  
“Bugs,” John said. He wasn’t sure where they were, but Caleb had gone through a lot of precautions up to this point. It seemed likely.  
  
The sat in silence for a long time. The more the minutes dragged on, the more John was convinced the room was bugged. They would be looking for information about who these two men were who had contacted them out of the blue. What better way to find out than a little psych-ops? Take John and Sherlock somewhere they weren’t familiar with and then abandon them. John didn’t think they were in danger, but the soldier in him was on guard, and the longer they waited, the more still and determined he became. He closed his eyes and focused on the noises coming from the rest of the house, trying to get his bearings.  
  
The minutes dragged by. Sherlock was first fidgety and then really fidgety. He kept looking at John, but John wouldn’t say anything and didn’t feel like being glared at right now, so he just kept looking forward. At one point, Sherlock came over and tried to whisper something. John was forced to quickly cover his mouth with his hand.  
  
It might have been a little too forceful, because Sherlock’s eyes got big and he froze. When John let go, however, he went over to the couch and sat still, moodily staring at the empty fireplace.  
  
Five minutes after that, the door opened. In walked a trim man, about John’s size and weight, slender but well-built. He looked like he did yoga every day. He wore dark, thick-framed glasses, expensive-looking dark jeans and a grey button-down shirt that had a sort of safari or military look – epaulettes and shoulder tab details, and a tab that wrapped around the rolled-up sleeves and held it each place with a button. The material was something John couldn’t name, but it looked expensive. He also had on a dark grey hat – casual, with a brim, but it looked pricey.  
  
“Hello,” he held out his hand as he walked right past Sherlock and came toward John, “I’m Simon Frost. It’s very nice to meet you, Sherlock Holmes. I love your hat.”  
  
John smiled. He was already shaking his hand. He almost laughed, but looked at Sherlock, who gave him a “go-with-it” signal. Caleb stood in the doorway. Had they not mentioned their names at all this whole time? John’s mind raced, going over everything.  
  
“Pleased to meet you. Cheers. John here doesn’t think it suits.”  
  
“Well, he’s wrong.” He continued to ignore Sherlock. Maybe he assumed Sherlock was just a bodyguard or something. If they had been listening, and John was pretty sure they had been, the only thing they would have heard was John repeatedly telling Sherlock to be quiet. If they had been watching, they would have seen John forcibly shutting him up and ignoring him.  
  
“Can I try it on?” Simon asked.  
  
John tried not to look surprised, but just took it off and handed it over. Simon took it and gave him his hat in exchange. He took a few moments at the mirror adjusting and then smiled at his reflection.  
  
“Try on mine,” Simon nodded towards the hat John still held.  
  
John stepped to the fireplace and put on the billed cap. Simon stayed in place, so they looked at each other through their reflections. John forced himself not to glance at Sherlock for reassurance.  
  
“Whatdaya think? Should we switch?” Simon said.  
  
John was backfooted, trying to decide if he would have to give this odd man his hat, when Simon laughed.  
  
“Don’t worry, Sherlock. I’m not going to take your toque,” he said,  
obviously proud of his little bit of alliteration. “It would throw off both our outfits, wouldn’t it?”  
  
John was relieved to hand Simon back his hat.  
  
“I’ll send you one,” John said, composing himself.  
  
Simon smirked and then gave him a piercing look. He sat in an armchair and motioned to John to take a seat.  
  
“Let’s talk about your other offering, first.”  
  
“Did you find it to be adequate?” John asked. He pulled himself up a fraction straighter, trying to project Holmesian imperiousness.  
  
“Yes, I did. We’ll have to do some tests, of course. Tell me how you see us working together.”  
  
Damn Sherlock. He really could have shared some more information.  
  
“That’s really up to you, Simon. I just wish to be of help to your organization. I have a very solid connection. We can supply other cities in Europe. Alternately, we can act as a hub for you in London. We can be set up with facilities, trucks and couriers within weeks, if you wish.”  
  
Simon raised an eyebrow and looked at Caleb, who returned the look with something John didn’t quite catch. Encouragement? Chagrin?  
Simon picked up his phone and looked at it, then typed for a bit without saying anything.  
  
Sherlock was starting to shift around. First, he got up and stood closer to John. A few minutes, he walked over to Caleb and whispered something that made him smile. It definitely did NOT make Simon smile. He shot them both a disapproving look.  
  
“John, pick a spot and stay there before I’m forced to get my staple gun,” Simon said to his phone.  
  
Sherlock tensed, but did as he was told, standing behind the couch and gripping the back.  
  
Finally, Simon tore his eyes away from his phone.  
  
“Sherlock, I think you must be psychic. I have been having trouble getting started in London. A lot more red tape than other cities. Caleb was just there and he had to leave quickly after a … problem developed.”  
  
Simon frowned briefly.  
  
“What else have you worked on?” Simon asked John.  
  
“I have a military background and advanced degrees in biology and chemistry. I assure you that I’m fully capable of running this operation. I believe you have already spoken to my character reference.”  
  
Simon leaned back in his chair and glanced at his phone again for a few seconds.  
  
“You understand I need a little more than that to go on.”  
  
John tilted his chin up and narrowed his eyes, doing his best Sherlock impression.  
  
“I found you after looking into this organization for less than a week. After sitting alone in this room for about an hour, I know that this is not your home, but your main office, and that it has been for about two years. Caleb is your right-hand-man, but you have two other employees here right now. The man who drove us here has police or military experience, and the other man has a deviated septum and is making your lunch and watching a home-improvement show in the kitchen,” John said, keeping his expression as flat as possible. “I think you’ll agree it’s a good thing I’m discreet.”  
  
Simon and Caleb made slightly worried faces at each other, but other than that, didn’t move.  
  
Then a smile spread across Simon’s face.  
  
“Sherlock Holmes, you are a smart man. A smart man, and very funny,” Simon said.  
  
“Actually, Simon, there’s still a lot I have to learn,” John said with a smile. “I feel it’s very important to know my strengths and weaknesses and to surround myself with people who compliment me. John here fills in a lot of holes for me -- things I miss.”  
  
Simon gave an appraising glance at Sherlock, but continued to find him lacking. John risked a glance at Sherlock. Sherlock was clearly annoyed.  
  
“Well, I like you,” he said, turning back to John. “I think we can work together. But, I still need to run tests on the material you brought today.”  
  
His phone beeped and he checked it.  
  
“I have to answer this. Caleb will see you out. We’ll be in touch,” he said to his phone.  
  
Caleb motioned them out into the hall, the big friendly smile in place again.  
  
“Well, that went well. I hope you can forgive Simon for the abruptness. He’s a very busy man.”  
  
“Of course,” John said.  
  
“John, you never said what your role in this organization would be,” Caleb asked, skirting over the fact that Simon had never asked -- had, in fact, actively ignored Sherlock.  
  
“I am the muscle and the legs. If we do work together, I likely will be the first contact for the doctors and serve as a courier,” Sherlock said.  
“That’s good. Important work,” Simon said, walking toward the garage, pulling the blindfolds out and waving the driver over to join them. “And how long have you and Sherlock worked together?”  
  
“He brought me in about three and a half years ago.”  
  
“It sounds like you two work well together. He spoke highly of you in there.”  
  
“Indeed. There’s not many people I find I can work with so well,” Sherlock said. John kept his face impassive. So pathetic -- any little scrap of praise from Sherlock created a little bloom of warmth.  
  
Caleb continued to pepper them with questions all the way back to Times Square. Whenever John or Sherlock tried to ask a question, he dodged it or changed the subject.  
  
As the car neared Times Square, Caleb gave them back their phones and told them they would be in touch within a day or so, to stay close.  
  
John found himself replaying Sherlock’s words as he got out of the car under a marquee for “The Book of Mormon.” Although Sherlock had been playing a role (and wasn’t he always?) something about the words rang true.  
  
As the car drove off, Sherlock and John stood on the pavement, staring at each other. John exhaled with relief at not having to be Sherlock anymore.  
  
Sherlock’s lips twitched. “I have a lot to learn, huh?”  
  
John wanted to smile, but tried to look imperious.  
  
“Obviously. Come on, John, I’m starving. Let’s get some New York pizza,” John said.  
  
Sherlock snagged John’s hat off his head and spun, walking down the street with a brown flatcap on his head.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock debrief after meeting with Simon Frost. Sherlock is unnerved by the fact that he won't be the point man in this investigation and goes to Irene to get a gun for John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't have done this chapter without the swift, intelligent and gentle proofreading of [Hidden Lacuna,](http://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenLacuna/pseuds/HiddenLacuna) who is brilliant and unflaggingly supportive. Thank you!!!
> 
> I've been listening to a ton of Mumford and Sons lately, so "Sigh No More" has become the soundtrack to this story.
> 
> “'Cause I have other things to fill my time  
> You take what is yours and I'll take mine  
> Now let me at the truth  
> Which will refresh my broken mind  
> So tie me to a post and block my ears  
> I can see widows and orphans through my tears  
> I know my call despite my faults  
> And despite my growing fears”  
> \-- “The Cave,” Mumford and Sons

  
“Do you think they did anything to our phones?” John asked, wiping grease from his chin.

  
They were sitting at a small plastic table in the window of a corner shop/restaurant called the Europa Café. It didn’t look like much, but sold pizza by the slice that was hot and surprisingly delicious.

  
That whole situation with Frost had ratcheted up Sherlock’s nerves. He was glad to have a task -- no matter how small. Sherlock took a close look at his phone and then held out his hand for John’s. He turned them over and opened them up.

  
“No bugs. Might be tracking us through the sat nav, though, if they managed to figure out a way past the lock code.”

  
John got to work on Sherlock’s untouched slice and pushed some salad over to Sherlock. He wrinkled his nose and pushed it back. His stomach had been unsettled most of the morning. If that had been the reason Simon had kept them waiting, it had been effective.

  
The hidden camera had been small enough to be undetectable, yet Simon had seen something in Sherlock’s body language that read as deference to John and assumed he was in charge. That, and the fact that John had grabbed him when he tried to speak. Sherlock’s stomach did another little flip at the thought of John’s hand roughly pushed over his mouth. He would have to clamp down. Clearly, his feelings, and his body, were betraying him. Sherlock stole a pepperoni from John.

  
“So, did you like my Sherlock impression?” John asked, grinning.

  
Sherlock shot him a “Don’t be ridiculous” look.

  
“A pale imitation of the real thing.”

  
“For no warning and practically no information? Come on. Seeing AND observing, check; imperious attitude, check; accurate and impressive deductions, including pointing out a man I never even saw, check. And all on barely no sleep.”

  
“Yes, actually, how did you know about the chef’s deviated septum?”

  
“There was a spot of blood in the hallway carpet and I could hear him sneezing and wheezing. It seemed best not to mention Simon’s swollen knuckles. I imagine that’s how the injury occurred.”

  
Sherlock was mildly surprised. That actually was quite good. Wrong, but close.

  
“What, you think after all this time I haven’t picked up a few things from your bag of tricks?” John said.

  
Sherlock stole another pepperoni.

  
“You missed the woman upstairs,” Sherlock said. He couldn’t help showing off, despite knowing better.

  
John gave a small startled look.

  
“What woman?”

  
“Why have an office that is a whole house; in fact, separate from where the work is actually done? Simon wasn’t wearing a ring, but his finger showed evidence that he usually wears one. He had recently showered and was wearing fresh clothing. Those last two things could have been after a morning workout or maybe because of the fight with the bloody-nosed man, but Simon also had a long dark hair on one sleeve. Plus, I heard someone moving around in the room above us. He keeps a mistress at that house.”

  
John smiled.

  
“That’s a relief, actually. He seemed awfully interested in my outfit.”

  
“No, not gay. A clotheshorse, vain about his body and works out quite a bit. Also, is self-conscious about his receding hairline, hence the obsession with ridiculous hats.”

  
“Ah,” John said, ignoring the dig. “Why didn’t you correct Simon about his mistaking me for you?”

  
“I saw the state of his knuckles as well. He is a volatile person and he clearly took an immediate dislike to me --”

  
“An intuitive and wise man,” John interrupted.

  
Sherlock glared, “and it didn’t seem like it would improve my standing to correct him within seconds of our introduction.”

  
“Now I’m going to have to pretend to be you for the rest of the case,” John said.

  
“For once, you can do all the heavy lifting, John. I’ll just stand around and look puzzled. I’m looking forward to the holiday.”

  
“And I look forward to having you fetch and carry things for me,” John said. He affected a worried look. “I do hope there is time to practice being prideful and conceited, though.”

  
“If this morning is any indication, you’ll have time enough to study all my skills and flaws before they contact us again,” Sherlock said. He thought he might have some time to gather some supplies. He dearly hoped they would not be left waiting in a hotel room for days. The thought alone made him feel twitchy.

  
“Good. There’s time for you to actually explain the plan to me, then,” John said.

  
“John,” Sherlock sighed, “you have a brain, surely you can work out what the next step is.”

  
John looked resigned, but determined.

  
“Gain Simon’s trust and access to the building they work out of?” John paused, then gained steam after a nod from Sherlock. “Find records of the operation, including employees, transportation, and names of coroners, doctors and funeral home employees who illegally sell them tissues. Do all this while actively pretending to be a kinder, gentler, dashing-in-a-hat version of Sherlock Holmes.”

  
“Close enough,” Sherlock said. The small shop was starting to fill up with people on their lunch break. He lowered his voice. “If they ask about our London source, you tell them that we have a morgue attendant who is working with us. Her name is Jane Reed. Do not tell them anything else about Molly, and certainly don’t mention Barts.”

  
John looked annoyed.

  
“As if I would. You know what I think about her being involved.”

  
“Fine,” Sherlock said as he pushed up from the table. “Let’s go back to the hotel and you can continue to berate me in private.”

  
\-------------

  
Sherlock sat on his bed while John sat on his, fiddling with the iPad. Sherlock used his burner phone, which he had left in the hotel, to check in with Molly and give her a quick update.  
He then got out his regular cell phone and sent a text to Irene.  
  
___________________  
To: IA  
In town. Need supplies – SH  
1:17 p.m., Jan. 17, 2012  
____________________

  
  
John stuck the iPad into the room’s docking station. Irish fiddle music came out of the speakers.

  
Sherlock wished he had his violin with him. His fingers moved involuntarily to the music. He brought them to his lips to stop the movement. John began rifling through his bag and took out a book.

  
He thought about this morning’s meeting and how to move forward.

  
Sherlock didn’t know if he could make any headway with Simon, but might Caleb be a side door into the operation?

  
His phone beeped.

  
___________________  
To: SH  
Supplies from my profession or yours? Either will cost you, I’m afraid. – IA  
1:19 p.m., Jan. 17, 2012  
____________________

  
  
Of course. Dealings with Irene usually did. He glanced at John. Keeping his feelings under lock and key was going to be even more important. Irene wouldn’t hesitate to use John against him.

  
He thought about his other options. Was there an easier way to get John a gun? He considered and rejected a short list of contacts in the area as even less trustworthy. Sherlock got up and paced. He was up slightly if they were keeping tabs on favours owed, as surely Irene was. He had saved her life in Pakistan, for which she returned the favour last year when he was tracking Moriarty’s men and needed an extra pair of eyes. But then he had acted as a witness as her wedding. Sherlock debated whether it was worth cashing in this debt with Irene for such a small matter.

  
But no, it wasn’t a small matter. John needed a gun, especially as he would be the point man in this operation. Sherlock was seized with irritation. Why was John forever putting himself in harm’s way? He growled in frustration.

  
“Tell me, John, are we celebrating the end to The Troubles or perhaps having a post-match Guinness with the lads?” Sherlock said, flinging one arm out toward the iPad.

  
John appeared to debate leaving the music on, but got up and scrolled through the selections before settling on something else. It was also violin music, calming this time. Although it did nothing to reduce the itch to hold his own violin.

  
___________________  
To: IA  
Actually looking for supplies more fitted to John’s skills. Willing to pay cash. I’ll be keeping my pound of flesh. – SH  
1:20 p.m., Jan. 17, 2012  
____________________

  
  
John clearly was waiting for a reaction. The recording was poor and the player was clearly not a professional. _Oh._ Sherlock looked at John, who smiled.

  
“You know it is illegal to record someone without their knowledge.”

  
“Does that apply to violin concertos? I thought that was just wiretapping,” John said. He was fairly proud of himself.

  
Bach -- Allemande in B minor Partita. About two weeks ago. Sherlock had played for an hour in the living room after hearing John thrash about and call out his name. Sherlock was annoyed that he hadn’t even noticed John had got out of bed. He must have been in the room with him, even.

  
___________________  
To: SH  
Pity. Camellia was interested in the three of us getting together. You could bring John, if he likes to watch. – IA  
1:22 p.m., Jan. 17, 2012  
____________________

 

  
The image of John in his pajamas, iPad in hand in the dim living room, Sherlock playing to the front window had suddenly gotten mixed up with something much more complicated.

  
“I’m going for a walk,” Sherlock said, grabbing his coat and scarf.

  
John killed the music and took a step toward him.

  
“Where?”

  
“I need to think.”

  
“What if Simon is tracking our movements?”

  
Sherlock blew out an irritated puff of air.

  
“Simon won’t be concerned about me strolling through Central Park. It’s not me he’s concerned with at all.”

  
And he was out the door before John could say anything else.

  
Sherlock stalked past the concierge and out into the chill. He walked without purpose as he tried to formulate a next step.

  
Simon’s complete dismissal of him might be to his advantage; however, he hadn’t liked being pushed aside, no matter the reason, and he really hadn’t liked watching a man like Simon being so familiar with John. Sherlock had certainly believed him when he said he would staple him to the floor. Not wanting to argue with John over meeting with Simon, Sherlock hadn’t told John all the stories about Simon’s violent tendencies -- how he had been banished from his father’s organization after striking his stepmother; and how he was rumored to have sewn together the lips of a man who had turned state’s evidence against him. Sherlock was glad that John hadn’t noticed the woman in the house. Although he had a lack of data, he thought it was a possibility that the blood in the hallway had come from the woman upstairs, rather than the man in the kitchen. Her footfalls had indicated a limp, and she had stayed in that room the entire time they spent in the house. Hiding a black eye or bruises?

  
Sherlock walked away from the hotel and made several turns at random. Although there were a lot of people around, he was fairly certain he wasn’t being followed.

  
Sherlock turned his attention to Caleb. He gave the impression of being open and friendly, but had not actually given them a single shred of information about himself or Simon. He was clearly very intelligent, more so than Simon, and held his cards closer to the vest than his boss. Maybe there was something about his failed trip to London that they could use. It was always so much more difficult to wheedle information out of someone about an incident they find embarrassing, though.

  
____________________  
To: IA  
Address? - SH  
2:25 p.m., Jan. 17, 2012  
____________________

  
  
When his phone beeped, he turned on Google maps and set off north. He was irritated and he would have to compose himself before reaching Irene.

  
The crowds thinned as he moved into a more residential area. Soon he neared the address Irene had sent him. Only 10 minutes from the hotel. He stood near a bus stop half a block down and watched the building for an additional 25 minutes before approaching.

  
Sherlock looked up at the well-maintained three-storey brownstone. Mounted beside the door was a small figure. He walked up the stairs. It was matte black square that held the image of a silver snake tied into knots with a shiny black snake. The door was opened by a large black man in an understated grey suit with a cheerful grin and a twinkle in his eye. Sherlock was glad to see security. In case his movements were being tracked, he wouldn’t like to lead Simon to Irene’s door.

  
“Welcome, Mr Holmes. Ms Adler and Ms Bearux are waiting for you in the Cane Room.”

  
_(Only child, raised by a domineering single mother, spends his off-work hours working out a great deal and little else. Oh, and he is a worrier -- chews his nails.)_

  
He led Sherlock through a foyer and opened a door.

  
Irene turned toward him with a sly smile. “Thank you, Ronald.”

  
She was as painstakingly put together, as always, wearing a black-and-coral pleated chiffon skirt, black top and sky-high heels. She moved toward him and kissed the air near his cheek.

  
“Hello Sherlock Holmes.”

  
Camellia walked across the room toward them both. She was not as brazen as Irene, but she knew what her assets were and had a confident carriage. She wore a black wrap dress that hugged her hips and narrowed to the knees, where the two ends of material met -- a tiny flash of skin and strong thigh appeared when she walked.

  
Camellia placed her hand on Sherlock’s arm and stood entirely in his personal space. _(Dancing green eyes with very long lashes. She wore almost no makeup except something shiny on her lips. She definitely knows what her best features are. She had a silver chain that flashed on her coffee-coloured neck with two tiny charms shaped like handcuffs. Each were inscribed with “freedom.”)_  
OK, maybe she is brazen. She gave him a small knowing smile.

  
“Welcome to Serpentine, Sherlock,” she said, her Creole accent barely perceptible. “Your boyfriend did not want to come play with us?”

  
“John is busy and he is not my boyfriend, as you surely know.”

  
Irene gave him an appraising look.

  
“Lovers’ spat?”

  
Sherlock sighed.

  
“As he told you himself, he is not gay.”

  
“Neither was I, until I met _ma chère_ ,” Camellia said, casting a fond look at Irene.

  
Irene hooked her arm through Camellia’s.

  
“John and Sherlock are playing the world’s longest orgasm denial game,” Irene said with a smirk. “They are both losing.”

  
He gave an annoyed grunt and scanned the room. It was minimalist in a Danish sort of way, the couch and one chair were both boxy and sleek looking. Based on the name “Cane Room,” he had expected it to be equipped with canes and restraints.

  
Irene laughed.

  
“The great detective is flummoxed,” she said to Camellia.

  
“I just need more data,” he said, and crossed to a small, low table that sat between the couch and the chair. He pulled open the drawer. It held a small tube of silicone lube, condoms and tissues.

  
“It is a sex club, but this room isn’t specifically for caning,” Sherlock said. “The name refers to the breed of snake. So all the rooms are named after the theme?”

  
Irene and Camellia shared a look.

  
“Very close,” Camellia said.

  
Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.

  
“Yes, each room is named after a different kind of snake. The Serpentine isn’t a sex club per se, however,” she said. “The Cane Room is our most stripped-down -- a neutral place for newbies without all that scary equipment.”

  
“Oh, of course. I suppose Ms Adler does have a specialized clientele she caters to, doesn’t she?” Sherlock said.

  
“Would you like the tour?” Irene asked, but she was already walking out of the room, Camellia following.

  
She led them to a room across the hall that had a small plaque beside the door that read “Queen.”

  
“You don’t have any clients here now?” Sherlock asked.

  
“It’s fairly early. Most people make appointments for later in the day, although one room upstairs is occupied by what I was told was a bad-cop-and-robber scene,” Irene said with a flirtatious smile. “Sounds like something you could lend your expertise to.”

  
“I’m sure my presence would be as little help to them as the police normally are to me,” Sherlock said.

  
The Queen Room shared the clean lines of the Cane Room, but also held a long, padded bar with two metal loops about shoulder width apart.

  
Sherlock kept his face impassive, but he knew his breathing had ticked up a notch.

  
“The Serpentine is what often is referred to as a dungeon, but I’ve always disliked the connotations of that word. We employ 10 men and women doms and they work with clients, usually one-on-one, to explore their fantasies or their submissive natures.”

  
Irene continued onto the next room. The Garter Room had a much larger leather couch, pushed up against one wall. Another whole wall held several loops of black rope of a few different weights, lengths and material. Sherlock spotted nylon, cotton and silk. The floor was covered with a plush carpet. A straight-backed wooden chair sat in a corner. Each leg had a metal o-ring protruding from it.

  
Irene continued on, pointing out a kitchen and a larger room that in any other home would be considered a living room or den. This looked like a lounge in a high-class hotel or bar. Wide windows let in the low winter light and looked out on a lovely green back garden, surrounded on all sides by a high hedge. A small fire glowed from the fireplace on the far wall, near a small bar area.

  
“This is our public space,” Camellia said. ”We call it the Racer Room. Many of our employees and clients prefer their privacy, of course, but they are free to sit in here, have a drink and talk,” one corner of her mouth pulled up. “Or not.”

  
“Many evenings, it gets quite frisky in here,” Irene said. “Camellia is the hostess of the Racer Room. She knows how to read what people need. She’s quite gifted at bringing together two people who complement each other.”

  
Sherlock met Irene’s eyes with a passive stare.

  
“But you don’t work one-on-one with clients anymore. You said Camellia was interested in ‘playing’ with me and John, so it’s not because of jealousy. Could it be you are settling down in your old age?”

  
“My energies are focused largely on administrative duties these days,” Irene said. “I do, however, teach a class on domination once a week.” She tilted her head. “Perfect for beginners. Are you free on Saturday morning?”

  
“Oh, I think I’ve learned all I can from you,” Sherlock said. He changed the subject.

  
“You live upstairs.”

  
“Yes,” she said. “On the third floor. There are other client rooms on the second.”

  
“Rattler, Copperhead and Coral,” Sherlock said. His phone beeped. He ignored it.

  
“Rattler, Copperhead and Sidewinder,” Irene corrected. “The Rattler is equipped with several strong o-bolts in the ceiling to hold restraints or a sex swing. The Copperhead is our play room. It can be set as a doctor’s office, bedroom or classroom for fantasy play; it’s the room that is currently being used as a police interrogation room. The Sidewinder is covered completely in an easy-to-clean, waterproof material for scenes that can be … messy.”

  
“Messy?” Sherlock perked up.

  
“Water, blood, or other body fluids,” Camellia said.

  
His damnable body reacted to that before he could stop it, and he tried to cover it with a yawn and stretch.

  
“Due to jet lag, I assure you,” Sherlock said.

  
The look on Irene’s face said he hadn’t fooled anyone.

  
Sherlock sat on the couch. Time to change the subject. He looked at a large glass-fronted cabinet that held a variety of riding crops, whips, leather handcuffs, ropes, paddles and several other things he couldn’t identify but looked quite painful.

  
“You can get a gun for me?” he asked.

  
“I have a Colt m1911 pistol you can take now, if it’s important. Otherwise, I can most likely get something specific within a couple of days.”

  
“That will do.”

  
“Dear, could you bring down the Colt?” Irene smiled at Camellia.

  
Camellia nodded and sauntered from the room.

  
“Now, what will you do for me in return?”

  
“I believe that this actually makes us square,” Sherlock said. “I stood beside you at your wedding, remember?”

  
“That was personal, this is work,” Irene said, touching the large sapphire ring on her left hand. “I do, of course, have a plan to repay you for the favour you did for Camellia and I. But I can’t do it if you don’t bring John by.”

  
Sherlock’s phone beeped again and he continued to ignore it.

  
“Speak of the devil,” Irene said. “Aren’t you going to see what he wants?”

  
He wouldn’t bring John here.

  
“He’s not in any danger.” He slipped his hand in his pocket and turned down the ringer.

  
“So you know what he wants?” Irene said with a knowing smirk. “Or do you just assume you do?”

  
“I never assume,” Sherlock said. “Why do you insist on talking about John?”

  
“Maybe I’m jealous. John gets so much of your attention,” Irene said.

  
“No more than anyone else,” Sherlock said.

  
Irene let out a surprised laugh.

  
“No one else gets your attention unless they are a corpse or the person who made the corpse,” Irene said.

  
“John is simply the person geographically the closest to me. Location, etc.”

  
“John is the closest to you because he orbits you.”

  
Sherlock shook his head and gave an irritated huff.

  
“Tell me, when was the last time he went on a date?”

  
“I’m not his secretary.”

  
Sherlock actually couldn’t say John had been on a date in the last 14 months. Thankfully, he heard Camellia clicking down the stairs and he got to his feet to meet her.

Instead of handing it to him, one side of her mouth ticked up as she ran the barrel down the row of buttons on Sherlock’s shirt. She stopped at his waistband.

  
“Tell him it’s single-action,” she said, then lowered the point of the gun even more. “He’ll have to manually cock the hammer every time he fires.”

  
The word “cock” got a little extra emphasis with the tip of the gun.

  
“Oh goody, wordplay,” Sherlock said.

She smiled and held the gun out in one palm and a box of shells in another.

The gun was heavy. He racked the slide, checked that the chamber was empty and ejected the cartridge.

Sherlock nodded and slipped the gun against the small of his back and the bullets into his pocket.

  
“Do you need anything else?” Irene asked. She crossed to Camellia and tucked a long brunette hair behind her ear in a tender, intimate movement.

  
“This should do for now,” Sherlock said. “In a few days I might need a listening device -- body wires or portable recorders, whatever you can get.”

  
Irene nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  
Sherlock moved toward the door.

  
“I’ll be in touch.”

  
“Sherlock,” Irene said. Sherlock turned back to look. “I was serious, you should bring John by.”

  
“John doesn’t care much for you, Irene.”

  
Irene smiled.

  
“That doesn’t mean I don’t know what he likes.”

  
Sherlock walked past Ronald, who was holding the door open with a broad smile and out into the street.

  
Sherlock waited until he was a couple of blocks away before he checked his phone. Five texts from John, each more frantic than the last, but all just asking where he was rather than saying what the problem was. He picked up his pace and reached the hotel within a few minutes.

  
He stood outside the door for a few seconds, listening. He could hear John’s muffled voice, but no response. He was on the phone.

  
As soon as Sherlock stepped in, he saw the problem.

  
John was trembling and struggling for breath, holding his arms around himself and sitting on the side of his bed, practically bent double.

  
John jerked up at the sound of the door opening and told the person on the phone, “He’s here,” and listened to their response.

  
His eyes were wide, his face covered with sweat and and he could barely get a word out without gasping for breath.

  
“ ... Where have … ”

  
_gasp_

  
“... you been? ... ”

  
 _gasp_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Allemande in B minor Partita by Bach: <http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-n0gjlhz70Q>
> 
> Camellia’s necklace is real and is from Locher’s Paris: <http://www.lochers.com/accessories32.html>


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a panic attack and then has a lot of feelings about Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the readers who have read and commented and liked this epic story. Unfortunately, I still cannot repay you with smut -- just a boatload of angst. It's coming, though. What can I say? I like a lot of foreplay.
> 
> I owe everlasting devotion to my beta [HiddenLacuna,](http://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenLacuna/pseuds/HiddenLacuna) who not only is lovely and talented, but also pushes me to make this story better.

“How fickle my heart and how woozy my eyes  
I struggle to find any truth in your lies  
And now my heart stumbles on things I don't know  
My weakness I feel I must finally show  
  
Lend me your hand and we'll conquer them all  
But lend me your heart and I'll just let you fall  
Lend me your eyes I can change what you see  
But your soul you must keep, totally free”  
\-- “Awake My Soul,” Mumford and Sons

  
  
“OK, John. Just breathe. It’s going to be OK,” Ella’s voice through the phone sounded very far away. His blood roared in his ears.

  
Sherlock came toward him, but froze about a metre away. John’s heart felt like it was beating through his chest.

  
“He’s here,” he told Ella, as he struggled for breath.

  
“John, give the phone to Sherlock.”

  
John’s hand shook as held out the phone and dipped his head, staring at the busy hotel carpet and attempted to take in at least a little bit more oxygen.

  
He could only hear Sherlock’s half of the conversation.

  
“Yes, obviously.”

  
...

  
“Yes, fine.”

  
...

  
“That is surprisingly useless. He can’t breathe. Tell me what to do.”

  
...

  
“That won’t help.” A deep sigh. “No, he won’t.”

  
“John, Ella is advising a course of action that involves me touching you.”

  
“No,” John wheezed out.

  
“He said no,” Sherlock reported.

  
“John, I think she’s right. I think it would help. ”

  
“I said no.” It came out much less forceful than John intended.

  
“You’re being irrational. It helped you before.”

  
“... You were … ”

  
_gasp_

  
“... manipulating me! ... ”

  
“I was HELPING you, you idiot!”

  
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John as he listened to Ella.

  
“Fine!” Sherlock said to Ella, then handed the phone back. “She wants to talk to you again.”

  
“John, I don’t know the whole story here. However, I know you respect Sherlock and his intellect. This is not a time for debate. The panic attack started more than 45 minutes ago. You’ve been having trouble breathing for a good 20 minutes. If you had a patient who needed Sherlock’s help, wouldn’t you suggest that he take it?”

  
_Damn. She’s right._

  
John looked at Sherlock. Had it only been 20 minutes? It felt like much longer. He just wanted to be able to take a deep breath.

  
He nodded to Sherlock and said “OK” into the phone. Sherlock sat next to him at the end of the bed.

  
“Good,” Ella said. “So you tell me, are you comfortable with him putting one hand on your arm or shoulder?”

  
“Arm.”

  
Sherlock took his cue and placed his hand over John’s shaking forearm.

  
“OK? How is that, John?” Ella asked.

  
John struggled to get enough air to push out a word.

  
“Fine.”

  
“He’s just going to leave that there for a minute, then I’m going to ask him to hug you. You tell him when you’re ready, OK?”

  
“OK.”

  
“Hand the phone over again.”

  
John stared at Sherlock’s long fingers wrapped around his arm as Sherlock spoke to Ella, gave several more terse “fines” and then disconnected and dropped the phone.

  
“Pressure equals safety.”

  
“Yes.”

  
“Also, your body will automatically mimic my breathing pattern.”

  
“ … Yes … ”

  
_gasp_

  
“ … I know … ”

  
_gasp_

  
“ … how it works … ”

  
Sherlock ground his teeth together.

  
“If you know this will help, stop being irrational,” Sherlock said, pressing his fingers into John’s arm a little bit.

  
The sound of his wheezing filled the room. John briefly considered getting up and walking away from the self-important berk, but he knew Sherlock was right. Besides, he wouldn’t get far. His head was like a balloon threatening to float away.

  
“Fine,” he said reluctantly.

  
Sherlock scooted along the edge of the bed until their knees were touching and pulled John’s arm, wrapping it around his back. John stiffly rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder and Sherlock propped a cheek against the top of John’s head. Sherlock still wore his coat and scarf and the wool was scratchy. The position was awkward, their knees pressed together and twisted sideways into each other. John’s head spun, especially when he closed his eyes. But, the rest of it was … warm. Steadying. John couldn’t remember if they’d ever hugged before. It was nice to feel enveloped by Sherlock’s arms.

  
Sherlock was taking in slow, deep breaths. John worked to mimic them, but he was still fighting the constriction in his lungs.

  
John didn’t know how long they sat like that. Neither of them said anything. John just focused on his breathing.

  
He thought it was working a bit, which was annoying. Sherlock was going to be even more impossible after he was proven right.

  
Sherlock’s hand moved up onto John’s neck. A shiver ran through him and one hand slid across Sherlock’s back and hit something hard under his coat.

  
He pulled back and Sherlock reached behind him and pulled out a gun.

  
He put it in John’s lap.

  
“I was getting this from Irene,” he said.

  
John picked up the gun and the tremors lessened. He checked the safety and then began taking it apart with movements that were second nature.

  
Sherlock was looking at him like he was a puzzle. He put his hand on John’s knee. Neither of them said anything for a bit. John felt an easing in his chest.

  
“How often does that happen?”

  
He kept his eyes on the gun. He wished he had the materials to clean it properly.

  
“Hardly ever.” In fact, he’d recently patted himself on the back because he’d realized it had been six months since the last one. Sherlock had been out that time, too.

  
“So this was out of the ordinary?”

  
“Yes.” John could feel his heart rate slow with his fingers on the cold metal.

  
“Do you have any Xanax?”

  
John met Sherlock’s eyes. “I don’t need it.” … _deep breath_ … “I’ll be fine now.” The relief at being able to fill his lungs was almost overpowering. So was the embarrassment.

He knew what Sherlock was thinking -- that he’d had a panic attack just because Sherlock hadn’t answered a few texts.

  
“You should fire that useless therapist,” Sherlock said.

  
“She’s not useless. I waited too long to call her. And I didn’t want to bother her -- time difference and all,” John said. “I have a mental exercise that usually helps, but it didn’t this time -- too little sleep, too much caffeine, too much stress. Everything just spun out of control too quickly.”

  
And yes, a voice in the back of his head said, Sherlock fawning off for hours in a strange city without a word didn’t help.

  
Sherlock just kept staring at him. There was something close to guilt in his expression. John worked at getting to know the new firearm. He reassembled it, aimed at a painting on the wall and pulled the trigger with less-than-satisfying click. He noticed his hand wasn’t shaking anymore.

  
_Why had Sherlock lied about where he was going? Why was he always so damn secretive about Irene?_

  
“How’s Irene?” John asked.

  
“Fine.”

  
“I told her we’d also need some listening or recording tech,” Sherlock said, his voice faltering a bit at the end. “But maybe...”

  
John looked up, sharply.

  
“If you are trying to figure out how to get me to drop out and go home, you can bugger off.”

  
“Wrong again. Do you ever get tired of it?” Sherlock snapped. “I was wondering how difficult it would be to shove a Xanax down your throat and board a plane with you unconscious.”

  
John glared.

  
“Try it,” John said. “Punching you would be a great stress reliever.”

  
Sherlock’s jaw worked like he was trying not to say something. Instead, he squeezed John’s knee.

  
“I’m fine. It’s nothing to do with the case,” John said.

  
Sherlock sighed and removed his hand, leaving a cold spot. He got up, took a box of bullets from his coat pocket and tossed them on the bed.

  
Despite the weight difference from his Browning, having it in his hand felt right. He reluctantly put it and the bullets into the drawer of the bedside table. He wanted to cling to it like a security blanket.

  
Instead, he mumbled, “shower,” and walked into the bathroom.

  
John swore he’d try to get more sleep and cut down on the caffeine, he thought as he stripped and turned on the water. He didn’t know what the hell he was going to do about his other addiction, though.

  
John had known he had feelings for Sherlock before he had faked his death, but he barely acknowledged them to himself. When faced with something that alters your whole perception about yourself, it’s easier to pretend it’s a crush or a phase. Then Sherlock was dead and he was able to tell himself it was a moot point. After Sherlock returned and revealed how and why he had faked his own death, John assumed that those feelings would be buried under miles of betrayal and guilt and anger. The problem being, of course, that when you are angry at someone you love, neither emotion can be just ignored. The love feeds that anger and turns it into something that consumes you.  
John turned his face up into the hot stream of water and let it blast him full in the face. He rubbed the water from his eyes and began to wash the sweat and stench of fear away.

  
For 14 long months John had worked hard at moving on. Yes, there had been a lot of grief, so much so that Lestrade and Molly had started to check in on him every day, like a suicide watch. The day Lestrade took his gun from him, John decided to stop living a half life and stop scaring his friends. He survived a war, and he could survive the death of Sherlock Holmes.

  
With time, he had started to get some distance and perspective. He had realized it was a weird, co-dependant relationship he had with Sherlock. Sherlock’s mad life made him feel sane by comparison. He liked being the one who had to take care of someone else. He had absolutely hated it when Molly, Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade urged him to eat or sleep. That was supposed to be his job. After Sherlock came back, he was determined to keep hold of his new-found sanity; a plan that clearly had been tossed out long ago.

  
John was disgusted with himself.

  
As he lathered up his hair, he thought about those first few weeks after Sherlock’s return. It had been easy to keep his distance. He felt so betrayed and hurt that Sherlock had lied to him, no matter the reasoning. When he would come home to Sherlock sitting on his sofa, John would rant and throw things, but he was mostly terrified. He was drawn to Sherlock and didn’t know how to turn him away, but he also didn’t know how to do it better this time, how to not make the same mistakes. So, he often avoided his flat. He walked around London and sometimes crashed on Lestrade’s couch.

  
Even after Sherlock talked him into moving back into 221b, John wasn’t around a lot. Finally, Molly had tracked him down at the pub one night and said something that sounded like one of those big truths: No one, ever, got a second chance like this. How often does your best friend come back from the dead?

  
When he had given up the anger -- that’s when the panic attacks and the nightmares started. In the dreams, he was always frozen on the roof with Sherlock, who would look right at him, eyes full of disdain, and step over the edge.

  
It wasn’t long after he moved back into 221b that John found his thoughts started to stray when Sherlock would glide through the flat in that blue silk robe, or when Sherlock was giving a suspect the full force of the Holmes glare. All that intensity caused John to break out in goosebumps.

  
Sometimes he was seized with the compulsion to record Sherlock, memorize every part of him. That’s why he started recording his late-night concerts. Not the screechy, atonal notes he played while working through a knotty problem, but when he thought John was asleep and he was playing something that made the back of John’s eyes itch. He would sit on the stairs, hit record on the iPad and lean against the wall.

  
However, it wasn’t until Sherlock had started touching him that things had careened out of control. The first time had been after Sherlock had called Lestrade a “bacterium on the festering rubbish pile that is Scotland Yard.” John blew up at him in the middle of the crime scene and shouted at him for 5 minutes about respect. Sherlock stood there looking unrepentant while Lestrade shook his head in a defeated way. Finally, Sherlock stepped into John’s personal space, locked eyes with him, grabbed his good shoulder and held on. It shocked him -- like a defibrillator restarting a heart. Sherlock’s touch reset his out-of-control emotions and crumbled the defensive wall in John’s brain.

  
That night, the fantasies started back up. While John still was actively working to kill the inappropriate thoughts, in the last couple of months, he had found himself turning down offers for dinner with friends in order to spend nights in with Sherlock, making him dinner and urging him to eat. Sometimes, they even would sit down at the table like real people and talk over the latest case or debate the proper way to make a Yorkshire pudding.

  
Despite falling back into the typical pattern of coming whenever Sherlock called, John was self-aware enough to hear the self-preservation alarm going off and know that he was setting himself up for a big fall.

  
This panic attack really had been the last straw. As he got out and dried himself off, he resolved never again to allow himself to become such a ridiculous caricature of a man. If he wanted to continue to work with Sherlock, he had serious work to do on his mental health; even if it meant telling Ella everything.

  
And he would start dating again. Maybe find a hobby that didn’t include blood splatter. He’d boot Sherlock out of his head. No more fantasies.  
John wasn’t going to allow himself to want someone who didn’t want him. Period.

  
  
\---------------------------------------------

  
John steeled himself and opened the bathroom door.

  
Sherlock wasn’t there.

  
His phone beeped with a text message.

  
  
____________________  
To: JW  
Out getting food.  - SH  
6:25 p.m., Jan. 17, 2012  
____________________

  
  
____________________  
To: SH  
Great timing.  - JW  
6:27 p.m., Jan. 17, 2012  
____________________

  
  
____________________  
To: JW  
Your showers are 12.5 minutes exactly. You also crave tea and salty snacks when stressed.  - SH  
6:28 p.m., Jan. 17, 2012  
____________________

  
Of course Sherlock knew how long he spent in the shower.

  
  
____________________  
To: SH  
Well done.  - JW  
6:29 p.m., Jan. 17, 2012  
____________________

  
  
____________________  
To: JW  
The proper care and feeding of a blogger is essential.  - SH  
6:30 p.m., Jan. 17, 2012  
____________________

  
  
  
John smiled.

  
A few minutes later, Sherlock was back in the room, arms laden with bags from the Duane Reade on the corner. He dumped it all on his bed. John pawed through the pile – noticing gummy bears, fake nails and nicotine patches – until he found the PG Tips and set to work at the microwave.

  
“What do you have planned for tonight?” John asked.

  
“I believe the term is ‘lay low,’” Sherlock responded.

  
“Great. Let’s watch a movie. I saw one coming on that you will love.” John turned on the telly and pointed to a local channel on the on-screen schedule. The strange feeling of disconnectedness that came with a panic attack was still fogging his head. He craved something familiar that would make him laugh.

  
“‘So I Married an Axe Murderer?’ John, you can’t be serious.”

  
“Deadly,” John said. “It’s a funny movie. Mike Myers plays multiple members of his own family.”

  
Sherlock rolled his eyes.

  
“It’s a mystery. Right up your street. I won’t even complain about your complaining and deducting the killer. That is, if you can figure it out.”

  
“Please refrain from any and all attempts to manipulate or outsmart me, it only embarrasses you. I have cracked codes, solved serial killings and protected empires. This,” he waved dismissively, John couldn’t be sure if it meant him or the movie, “is a waste of my time.”

  
“There’s such a thing as a work/life balance. Most people strive for it. In fact, most people agree it makes them better at their job if something makes them happy that is NOT their work.”

  
“Watching an inane movie will make me a better detective?”

  
“There is truth and redemption in art,” John said, putting on a pompous attitude that quickly dissolved into a sly smile. It was an argument they’d had many times, every time John wanted a mindless night of telly rather than watching chemicals bubble up in a beaker and overflow onto their kitchen table.

  
“I need redemption?” Sherlock asked, looking like he was really interested in the answer.

  
“Yes, Boy Genius. Don’t we all?” John turned up the sound on the opening bars of the theme song.

  
Sherlock’s eyes sparked. He pulled the remote out of John’s hand and hit mute.

  
“What are you atoning for?”

  
“You name it, I’ve probably got some atoning to do,” John said. He looked away. This was starting to brush up against something awfully close to an unspoken truth. He had supported Sherlock and had believed in him, but he had added nothing to Sherlock’s assets when he went up against Moriarty. In fact, he had actually been a liability. He had failed to protect Sherlock.

  
“In that case, you can start now,” Sherlock said. “Your atonement begins by turning off the telly and doing something I want to do.”

  
John didn’t think Sherlock understood the guilt he carried, but he certainly had sensed a weakness.

  
John stole back the remote from Sherlock.

  
“And what’s that? Not much to do in a hotel room.” He watched as Sherlock blushed and suddenly gave in.

  
“Fine. But you should know I’m only doing this to fulfill my role as human Prozac. I didn’t pack a straightjacket, so I have no other choice.”

  
“You go get me snacks and then you let me watch what I want to watch? If you are aiming to help me NOT have a panic attack, being considerate is the wrong move. Nothing could terrify me more.”

  
Sherlock made a mocking noise.

  
“I am simply allowing you to test your ridiculous hypothesis. At the end of the film, if I am not a better detective, you lose.”

  
“Great,” John said, and he rapidly hit “unmute,” and put a bag of popcorn into the microwave and tossed Sherlock a bottle of water and a banana.

  
“Movie snacks,” John said.

  
The popcorn finished popping as Mike Myers made eyes at Nancy Travis against scenes of San Francisco. John plopped down on his bed with the bag and a bottle of water for himself.

  
“You get popcorn and I get fruit?” Sherlock gave him pissy look from his bed.

  
“No bowls,” John said, tossing a few kernels into his mouth. “No way to divide it up.”

  
Sherlock sighed and came over to John’s bed.

  
“Budge over,” he said and sat down next to John against the headboard. He pulled his feet in so his knees where practically around his ears. He delicately picked a few pieces of popcorn and put them in his mouth.

  
John smiled to himself. Moments like these were very nice. If he could rebuild his mental stability and somehow keep this, that would be enough. And hell, it was more than most people had. How many people did he know – especially those who had come back from Afghanistan – who couldn’t seem to keep a marriage together?

  
Still, he thought, if he ever met a woman with a well-designed upper lip like Sherlock’s, he planned to face-plant on it never come up.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [So I Married an Axe Murder](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zCrT96QJBfQ&feature=related) is an awesome movie -- Sherlock gives it two thumbs up.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock sets about trying to help John the day after watching him have a panic attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. This chapter was a slog. Thanks again to the beautiful [HiddenLacuna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenLacuna/pseuds/HiddenLacuna), who not only beta'd for me, but went through the damn thing line by line. If you snortgiggle at anything in this chapter, you can bet it was her idea or her actual words. Join me in worshiping her, won't you?

“You are the night time fear  
You are the morning when it's clear  
When it's over you'll start  
You're my head  
You're my heart  
No light, no light in your bright blue eyes  
I never knew daylight could be so violent  
A revelation in the light of day  
You can't choose what stays and what fades away  
And I'd do anything to make you stay  
No light, no light  
No light  
Tell me what you want me to say.”  
-”No Light, No Light,” Florence and the Machine  
  
Sherlock sat propped up in the bed next to a snoring John, who had sunk lower and lower into the bed until he finally dozed off about 45 minutes into the movie. He was curled up on his side, facing away from Sherlock. Sherlock smiled at the one bare foot pressed up against his leg.  
  
In one day, Sherlock had managed to break all his new No Sexually Harassing the Blogger rules. He weighed the options and decided that for tonight only, he would allow this close contact. The potential for John to have another attack or a nightmare was increased if he removed his body heat. If John slept, he would be more focused if they did get a call from Simon tomorrow.  
  
Having appropriated John’s iPad, Sherlock read up on panic attacks and anxiety disorders. Sherlock wished he could have witnessed how the attack began; then he would be able to see the signs of another one coming on. Since John had stubbornly avoided revealing the issue to Sherlock for months, he suspected he wouldn’t suddenly open up to him.  
  
How to help John without talking to him about it or stealing Ella’s notes (another action John would surely object to)? Sherlock thought of seven ways to give John more control -- unfortunately, three of them involved Sherlock giving up some of his own. And three involved physical contact; something John clearly needed, but wouldn’t admit to needing. Also, Sherlock found it increasingly difficult to hide his body’s response when close to John.  
  
John’s foot twitched against his leg. Sherlock looked at John. He couldn’t see his face, but he knew he must be dreaming. The twitching increased in frequency and violence and John whimpered. Sherlock didn’t move. Since living with John, Sherlock had done a lot of research on nightmares. It was important for the brain to process the day’s events through dreams. If John stayed asleep throughout the night, he wouldn’t even remember the dream. Still, it was hard to watch John go through some trauma, no matter that it wasn’t real. Hence: the violin playing.  
  
John tensed, then flailed and cried out, “Sherlock, NO!”  
  
Sherlock felt his heart clench. It was a dream about his jump from Barts, not about the panic attack. John usually avoided speaking about it, but on the nights after anyone else brought up the topic, Sherlock had listened from the living room as John thrashed and screamed out just like he was now. If they were at 221b, he would be playing by now. Sherlock realized he had the next best thing and sought out the recordings John had made of him playing.  
  
He released an amused puff of air. There was a library of recordings in a folder labelled Reasons Not to Kill or Maim the Tosser. John had recorded him on close to a dozen nights. He settled on the same Bach concerto John selected earlier that day and watched as John quieted and the jerking faded. Then John’s breathing hitched and he rolled over and snuggled up to Sherlock. The therapeutic hug had been one thing, but John had been tense and his eyes had been full of shame and fear and mistrust. This was full-body contact -- John was pressed up against him, warm and solid. His forehead was pressed up against his hip and his eyelashes were stuck together, wet with tears. Sherlock wanted to whimper, too. Instead, he willed himself to hold as still as possible until John sank back into a heavy sleep.  
  
The irony, of course, was if he was attempting to solve a riddle that centred on an emotional issue, he would go to John for help -- translating emotion was a skill that John possessed that he didn’t. Without John’s help, Sherlock felt like he was crawling his way around in the dark. One thing he did realize, however, was that step number one should be to buy some trousers that left a little something to the imagination.  
  
When the sun started to shine over the silhouetted skyscrapers, Sherlock slid from the bed and went into the bathroom for a shower. More internal debates: He’d been half erect for what seemed like days. If he permitted a wank, would it release the pressure, or merely start a cycle of attraction-erection-masturbation?  
  
Naked, under the water, Sherlock’s mind surged ahead without him, placing him and John in the Queen Room at Serpentine as he ran a hand down his chest and over his cock. His imagination showed him a gloriously naked John, who roughly kissed him and Sherlock felt a warm trickle swirl through his chest. The liquid heat slipped down into his belly as the image of John locked him to the padded bar where Sherlock, arse in the air, yelled out his name each time the paddle stung his bare skin. His stomach did a little flip and his hips thrust forward as he imagined John grabbing his hair from behind and jerking his head back. He ran his hand lightly around the head of his cock under the warm water.  
  
Sherlock squeezed some conditioner into his palm and rubbed his fist in long, slow strokes, imaging John doing the same as he slowly drove himself into Sherlock. As his hand sped up, Sherlock leaned onto the tile as his heart pounded and the water sluiced down his back. The bathroom steamed up as imaginary John fucked him hard, causing the leather cuffs to dig into his wrists with each thrust. Sherlock’s knees were wobbly and he couldn’t help the throaty groan that escaped as he came.  
  
As his breathing slowed, Sherlock realized it had been only 35 hours since he had discovered his attraction for his flatmate. Thirty-five hours and he was already locked up and spanked in his head. Victor would be so pleased -- his training certainly had implanted itself deep into Sherlock’s psyche.  
  
Sherlock turned off the shower and towelled himself off. He had a sinking suspicion that this had been just the first of a series of inappropriate and unfulfilling fantasies. Letting yesterday slip by without any movement on the case had been a mistake. Another day and he might have to shove that Xanax down his own throat. Sherlock heard the door open and close. He wrapped himself in a towel and opened the bathroom door to find the room empty.  
  
There was a note on the bed with one word -- Jogging.  
  
Damn that man. What was he thinking? He jerked the door open, but the hallway was already empty. And John had left his phone on the bedside table. Sherlock checked the drawer. The gun was still there. Was he trying to return the favour and give Sherlock a panic attack?  
  
 _Thoughtless man._  
  
Sherlock got dressed as he mentally mapped John’s likely path. Sherlock grabbed the iPad. The last page opened was a map of Midtown, showing the closest green area was Washington Square Park, seven blocks away. That had to be it. John wouldn’t pass up a chance to ogle college girls at NYU across the street.  
  
He threw down the iPad and reached for his coat. He was at the door before another thought occurred to him: John was likely to react poorly to being berated in public. He was most likely safe. Sherlock had walked all over lower Manhattan yesterday without a sign of a tail.  
  
John was strong and never backed down from a fight -- but Sherlock wasn’t sure if his ability to physically defend himself was equal to his courage. A lesson in self-defence could dovetail nicely with his PTSD recovery plan for John, but of course, involved very close contact. Sherlock decided it wasn’t the time. If John was compromised right now, then Sherlock would have to be alert and he couldn’t do that if half his brain was filled with images of John doing things that would make the Queen drop her crumpet.  
  
Sherlock removed his coat and paced for half an hour until he heard the keycard in the slot, and a sweaty and panting John came through the door in navy running shorts and a grey T-shirt that said _Determination is everything - run for Oxfam._  
  
Sherlock tried to look nonchalant.  
  
“How was Washington Square Park?”  
  
John just smiled and shook his head as he cracked open a bottle of water.  
  
“Anyone follow you?”  
  
“Not that I saw.”  
  
Sherlock scowled.  
  
“You should have taken the gun.”  
  
“How would I carry a gun, in my jock strap?” John cocked a smile.  
  
Sherlock couldn’t help it as one side of his mouth teased up at that image.  
  
“I’m not a damsel in distress. I can defend myself if attacked.”  
  
Sherlock gave a derisive snort.  
  
“I can, Sherlock.”  
  
“As a former cocaine addict, I’ve never put much stock in the phrase ‘runner’s high’ before, but clearly you are doped to the gills,” Sherlock said.  
  
“I’m sure you recall an incident when a certain former Army captain took down a certain twat of a consulting detective,” John said with a smile.  
  
Sherlock’s eyebrows jumped up.  
  
“I recall being sucker-punched by someone with a weak right hook and anger issues.”  
  
“You think that wasn’t a fair fight? Round two, then.”  
  
 _Turn this conversation around -- NOW._  
  
“Well, you’re tired, after your run. I wouldn’t want to take advantage.”  
  
“I’m sure I can hold my own,” John said, the smile spreading into a confident grin. “I had hand-to-hand combat training.”  
  
Sherlock laughed. _He’s asking for it. Why not give him a little martial arts lesson?_  
  
“A few lessons more than 10 years ago have made you skilled at the art of self-defence?”  
  
“I didn’t say ‘skilled,’ but, yes, I remember my training.”  
  
Sherlock crossed toward the bedside table. “Wonderful, I guess you won’t need the gun. I’ll just return it to Irene.”  
  
 _It could help him. Who better to teach him?_  
  
John moved swiftly and suddenly Sherlock lay on his back between the beds. John bounced on his toes, knees slightly bent, joyfully punching the air, a smug look on his face.  
  
 _Oh, this day just got more interesting._  
  
Sherlock hid a smile as he bounced up and moved away from the beds. He pushed the small table and chairs towards the telly and cleared a small space, then motioned with one hand for John to come closer.  
  
John crouched low and circled Sherlock.  
  
“Rules: Nothing below the belt. And no Scottish martial arts,” John said, recalling a joke from the movie they had watched the night before.  
  
“I think it should go without saying that there is no headbutting allowed,” Sherlock said dryly.  
  
He affected a disinterested expression, although he noticed that John had absorbed his lessons well. When he wasn’t bouncing around like an idiot, his stance was good and, if his first move was any indication, he didn’t have an obvious tell that he was about to strike. Now Sherlock just had to wait.  
  
It wasn’t long. John went for the mid-body as Sherlock thought he would. It was a mistake, of course, and Sherlock had him on his back in seconds. John looked surprised. He settled on one knee over him.  
  
“I can easily strike you in the face or throat and you’d have little recourse,” Sherlock said. “Up.”  
  
John grabbed the offered hand and Sherlock pulled him up.  
  
“Don’t go for the middle, it’s too hard to unbalance someone like that. You have to use their weight against them and take their feet out from under them,” Sherlock said. He slowed down and showed John how he had swiped his feet.  
  
“Alright, Kung Fu Master. Like this?” John awkwardly tried to knock Sherlock’s feet out from under him.  
  
“No. And it’s not kung fu, it’s bartitsu,” Sherlock said.  
  
Sherlock worked on the move a bit more, with John getting increasingly better at it every time.

“If we had a bit more room, I’d show you how to throw someone over your back. It’s a lot easier than you’d think. Although you’d have to be careful of your -- “  
  
Sherlock had the words knocked from him and he was staring at the ceiling.  
  
John had Sherlock pinned. Triumph was all over his face and he practically crowed, “Got you!”  
  
Sherlock felt a little bloom of pride. John, despite getting distracted at the end, had caught on quickly.  
  
With a small twist, Sherlock rolled them over and sat on top of John, his hands on either side of his head. He looked down at John, who continued to struggle.  
  
“You have to stay mindful of your centre of gravity, John. Never leave someone with their arms free,” he said. “If you are already in close quarters like that, use a move like this -- it’s judo.”  
  
Sherlock realized John’s face was shiny with sweat and very close to his own. Sherlock was decidedly warm himself. Sherlock rolled off and up in one smooth, graceful move.  
  
John was not smiling anymore when he got to his feet. Without preamble, he grabbed Sherlock’s hand and twisted, spinning him around. His arm flared with pain. John pushed lightly and Sherlock was up against the glass of the huge window.  
  
John leaned in close and held a handful of hair, pressing his face against the glass.  
  
“How’s that?” John said lightly. “Shall I hold you here while I explain exactly what I did?”  
  
“Unnecessary,” Sherlock said, the pain making his voice a bit higher than normal. It was frightening how close John had come to recreating the fantasy Sherlock had just an hour ago. John was still leaving one of Sherlock’s arms free, but Sherlock allowed John to believe he was in control.  
  
“Good. I’m off to shower then,” John said, and released him. “I have to go buy a suit.”  
  
Sherlock watched him pull clothes out of his bag. He very much wanted to rub his arm, but held off.  
  
“Dressing for Simon Frost?” Sherlock asked.  
  
“Dressing _as_ Sherlock Holmes,” John said, and disappeared into the bathroom.  
  
\-------------------------  
  
Sherlock accompanied John to a small menswear store and laid down Mycroft’s card as John bought a charcoal two-button suit, a slim navy pullover and a windowpane check blue, purple and white shirt. The tie had diagonal stripes in similar colors. At the last moment, he threw a red belt onto the checkout counter. No hats, thank god for small mercies, but John just couldn’t resist a jumper, even with a suit.  
  
They didn’t have time for tailoring, but Sherlock had to admit John looked smart nonetheless.  
  
On their way out, Sherlock started to get irritated at the thought of another afternoon watching movies on cable television. John kept glancing at him out of the corner of his eye as they slowly rode along Eleventh Street in the back of a cab.  
  
“Out with it, John.”  
  
“I was just going to say the same,” John said. “No, let me deduce what you are thinking.” He squinted and looked him up and down. “You are thinking you’d like to pick the movie tonight. Very well, but no chick flicks this time.”  
  
“No,” Sherlock said, unamused. “Rather than sit around in a hotel room, I thought we could actually do what we came here to do.”  
  
“Simon hasn’t called. What can we do?”  
  
“I memorized the route of yesterday’s blindfolded adventure. We could find the house, or at least the neighborhood,” Sherlock said. “I was hoping Simon would come to us by now; I didn’t want to risk it if they are tracking our phones.”  
  
Sherlock was mindful of his wording, using “we” and “us” as much as possible rather than his more traditional “I” and “me.”  
  
“And now?”  
  
“Now I have a plan.”  
  
“Right,” John looked determined. “We should get a car.”  
  
Sherlock grunted approval.  
  
  
\----------------------------  
  
Equipped with a rental car and a new phone that Sherlock’s mobile forwarded calls to, Sherlock drove them from Times Square, counting under his breath and following the turns he had committed to memory. He brought them to a pale yellow house fronted by a bare patch of dirt in a Brooklyn neighborhood full of laundromats, bodegas and liquor stores. Sherlock skirted the alley that led to the garage and parked down the street, where they had a clear view of both the alley and the front of the house  
  
They watched absolutely nothing happen for two hours before Sherlock let his attention get pulled away by John, sitting in the passenger seat.  
  
Sherlock felt that liquid warmth flow from his chest and pool in his belly as he watched John watch the building. John looked dapper in his new suit and he had that bulldog look on his face. It both turned him on and made him feel so absurdly tender toward the man.  
  
John turned toward him and quirked a lip.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
“Sherlock,” John said, with a warning tone. “What are you up to?”  
  
“What I’m up to is watching the house for movement and I suggest you do, too.”  
  
John stared for a bit and then turned back toward the house.  
  
After pause, he took a deep breath.  
  
“Did you get any sleep or did you stay up all night reading about PTSD?”  
  
Sherlock made a noncommittal noise.  
  
“I would appreciate it if you didn’t experiment on me.”  
  
Sherlock looked at him sharply.  
  
“I’m not experimenting.”  
  
“I saw all the articles and videos on PTSD that you pulled up.”  
  
“I was simply educating myself.”  
  
“Then why did you stay in my bed all night?”  
  
Sherlock acted unconcerned.  
  
“I was busy and saw no reason to move.”  
  
“Say it with me: ‘I will not experiment on my fucked-up flatmate,’” John said in a sing-song voice.  
  
“One, you are not fucked up, and two, I am not experimenting,” Sherlock said. “You have to admit that I helped you.”  
  
John sighed.  
  
“I knew you were going to say that. I know you feel like you are always right, but you’re not. Sometimes you’re just thoughtless and hurtful.”  
  
Sherlock started to speak in his own defence, but John’s anger was growing rapidly and he plowed ahead.  
  
“You don’t really think you can ‘fix me,’ do you?”  
  
 _Unbelievable. John was determined to think the worst._  
  
"I'll just let you hyperventilate next time, shall I?”  
  
“Maybe. I will deal with my problems and you can continue to scamper off by yourself.”  
  
“You’re contradicting yourself. You want to be a part of every case I have, but you don’t want me to help when you have a problem?”  
  
“Either we’re partners or we’re not.”  
  
“How can we be partners when you clearly don’t trust me? What’s this about?”  
  
“This is about every time you decide I’m not necessary. It’s about every time you decide to lie to me out of some misguided impulse to protect me.”  
  
“I have protected you,” Sherlock snarled.  
  
“At what cost? I know you still think you were right to stage your own suicide --”  
  
“Dammit, John --”  
  
“-- But you have NO idea how horrible it was to watch you die. But even worse than that, Sherlock? Worse than watching my friend kill himself was finding out that it was all a lie. You tricked me and you lied to me and you had other people lie for you. Sometimes the end does not justify the means.”  
  
John fell silent.  
  
Sherlock kept his eyes on the house as his guts roiled. To give John what he really needed to trust him again, Sherlock would have to risk showing John some dark places. He backed away from it.  
  
“I won’t touch you without permission. New idea,” Sherlock said, putting his hands on the steering wheel. “You decide when you need it. Grab my arm or hand or knee whenever you feel like you need something to ground you.”  
  
John shut his eyes and shook his head in a defeated way.  
  
“Whatever,” John said. “Just remember, this --” he pointed at his own forehead “is not to be tampered with.”  
  
“I don’t ‘tamper’ with things, I --”  
  
“You trapped me in a dark lab and made spooky sounds when you thought you’d dosed me with a hallucinogen,” John said.  
  
“That was more than two years ago!” Sherlock said. “And I apologized.”  
  
“You’ve never apologized for anything, Sherlock!”  
  
“You’re right,” Sherlock said, taking a deep breath.  
  
It was time to get to the heart of the matter.  
  
“I didn’t realize what the collateral damage would be when I decided to fake my death. I truly thought it was the only way. When I saw you mourning me at my empty grave, I realized I had made … a serious error, but it was done and I needed to move forward. Then I left London.”  
  
John looked at him in surprise. Sherlock had never talked about where or how he had spent the year away.  
  
“I hunted down three men. I went to Rio and Damascus and Houston. In every city, I spent months tracking a man who had been hired by Moriarty to kill you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, and I killed him. Two of the men had no one to instigate an investigation, so I shot them from long distance and left. One man had a family -- three young children. He was also well-connected and hard to get to. I had to ensure his disappearance couldn’t be traced to me. I slit his throat and then I cut him up and buried the pieces.”  
  
Sherlock felt sick thinking about it.  
  
“I hated myself.”  
  
He swallowed with difficulty.  
  
“After I left Molly’s I was alone for every minute, apart from a few days with Irene. Those men would have killed you. I’d do it again to protect you,” Sherlock said, his voice low. “But every day I just wanted to go home. I was in London for weeks before I knocked on your door. I didn’t know if you would forgive me.”  
  
He stared straight ahead, his knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel.  
  
“Yesterday, you said everyone has something to atone for. I understand that.”  
  
John was very, very still. Some of these things Sherlock hadn’t even admitted to himself. He hadn’t planned on ever telling John and now his mind raced through ways to fix -- cover up -- what he had just done.  
  
Sherlock couldn’t look at him -- was afraid of what he would see -- anger or disgust being the most likely options. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see as John rolled his shoulders, and clenched his fists. He reached out his hand and curled his fingers around Sherlock’s.  
  
They sat together in silence as Sherlock marvelled at how quickly the tables had turned. John was using touch to comfort him. _He always finds a way that I don’t see._ Sherlock turned toward John, but left his hand where it was. There was nothing but understanding on John’s face.  
  
Sherlock didn’t know where John’s reserves of compassion came from. By all rights, he should be tapped out. John’s eyes were fixed on his. He made that worried face with his eyebrows drawn close together. Sherlock wanted to lean in and kiss that expressive mouth and make it so John never had anything to worry about again. John’s thumb lightly ran over Sherlock’s pinky and he shivered.  
  
John lips slowly spread into a sly smile.  
  
“You still haven’t actually apologized, you know,” John said.  
  
Sherlock let out a shaky laugh and they both jumped as Sherlock’s phone rang. John pulled his hand back.  
  
“It’s Caleb,” Sherlock said, and cleared his throat before answering.  
  
“Caleb,” Sherlock said. “Good to hear from you.”  
  
“John. Hello. Simon would like to see Sherlock today.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to see John's sexy new suit, it's on my [Tumblr](http://honeybee221b.tumblr.com/post/32953694526/banana-republic-fall-winter-2012-menswear-this-is). Be warned, there's a handful of NSFW stuff on there.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock have an uncomfortable day at the headquarters of Simon's operation and deal with some unexpected violence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for ickiness and blood and more discussions of PTSD and flashbacks.
> 
> Also, the structure of this chapter is a bit off -- I switch between John's POV and Sherlock's.
> 
> Hugs and devotion to [HiddenLacuna,](http://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenLacuna/pseuds/HiddenLacuna) who has put in just as many hours as I have on this story.
> 
> The rest of the story is pretty much written and we're getting to the good stuff. Come back next week for blowjobs.

_I may not hold you_  
 _For as long as forever exists_  
 _I may not know you_  
 _For as long as the heavens permit_  
 _There will be distance_  
 _And we'll both have to come to expect_  
 _The wild ending of our dark and feathered friends_  
  
 _And we wield the mighty sword_  
 _That cuts through bone and lays the liars down_  
 _And we wield an angry sword_  
 _That softens stone and turns the tides around_  
  
 _So you called me over_  
 _And I'll wait by your building tonight_  
 _But you may not bother_  
 _But it's better than feeding the lie_  
 _I am receiving_  
 _The message that I need to go_  
 _But I'm not leaving_  
 _'Til one of us surrenders its soul_  
 _'Til one of us renders it so_  
\-- “Mighty Sword,” The Frames  
  
John rang off and Sherlock gave John the " _pit it out"_ look.  
  
“Frost wants us to come to a warehouse in the Bronx.”  
  
Sherlock started the car as John typed the address into his phone, which gave them directions to a building north of Randalls Island Park, just off the Triboro Bridge. The sat nav said it was a 30-minute trip and they sat in silence as Sherlock drove.  
  
Sherlock’s confession had deflated John’s anger. For Sherlock, the confession was practically like opening a vein. John felt the ever-present thrum of guilt hum louder. He had dismissed Sherlock’s capacity for emotion. He despised other people when they treated Sherlock like he was all head and no heart. Meanwhile, John had been so wrapped up with his own mental mess that he’d completely missed the black mark the violence of that year had left on Sherlock.  
  
Then there was the look Sherlock had given him. It was stripped of all the false fronts and affected disinterest. John tried not to read too much into it, but combined with his hand over Sherlock’s, it had undone him. Even more than that, it had made him think that maybe the whole touching thing hadn’t been a twisted way to torture him or distract him. Or at least not _just_ a way to distract him.  
  
John could still feel the warmth of Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock’s voice rang in his head, giving permission to touch. John couldn’t help the smile that crept over his face and he looked out the window to hide it. What he would do with _carte blanche_ over Sherlock’s body.  
  
 _Don’t get worked up, Watson. He is damaged and you are his friend. The last thing he wants is a horny flatmate getting all handsy._  
  
He tried to shake off the nervous energy that surrounded them like a vapour and focus on the job ahead of him. He needed Sherlock to be present, too.  
  
“Are you going to be able to keep quiet in front of Simon?” John asked.  
  
“Of course.”  
  
John rolled his eyes.  
  
“What if they pat us down again and take the gun?”  
  
Sherlock frowned.  
  
“Think of something. Keep hold of it,” Sherlock said. “Keep your eyes open and don’t take any risks. We are here to gather information, but it’s our first visit. We’ll have other chances to find documentation.”  
  
John said nothing, just pursed his lips. That seemed like a very tentative action plan for Sherlock Holmes.  
  
“Remember that he’s violent and volatile. But he won’t respect you if you seem afraid.”  
  
John looked at him. Sherlock’s eyes were lined with worry.  
  
“What aren’t you telling me?” John asked.  
  
Sherlock sighed. “I’m just trying to get you in the right frame of mind. You can’t walk in there and be the person that most people assume you are. You have to be the version of yourself you hide.”  
  
They pulled up in front of a warehouse that looked like every other pre-fab building they’d passed for the last 10 minutes.  
  
John looked at Sherlock, one eyebrow cocked. He stayed in the car, putting off walking into the lion’s den in favour of a few more minutes of Sherlock confiding in him.  
  
“The version I hide? This should be good. Tell me about that John Watson.”  
  
Sherlock looked him in the eye.  
  
“The John Watson you present to most people is a loyal lap dog padding behind his master. The hidden John Watson is a trained German Shepherd. On point. Quick. And scary as hell. That’s why you are beside me.”  
  
John smirked.  
  
“You are the king of backhanded compliments,” John said.  
  
“What?”  
  
“I’m still a dog in either scenario,” John said.  
  
Sherlock got out of the car and John followed, straightening his suit jacket.  
  
“That’s not what I was saying and you know it.”  
  
“OK, here’s my German Shepherd self,” John said, and pulled himself up into his military stance and grinned a sly, dangerous smile, eyes narrowed and aimed at Sherlock like he was going to eat him for lunch.  
  
Sherlock smiled.  
  
“Good boy.”  
  
John laughed and rolled his eyes. Sherlock had hit square on another of his insecurities -- that he was too broken to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with a man like Sherlock -- and in his casually indifferent way, wiped it away. Combined with Sherlock’s earlier confession, it went a long way toward making him feel closer to the days when they were Holmes-and-Watson, the two of them against the world.  
  
“OK, I got it. I’ll be watchful, tough, and try not to drool on anyone,” John said. “And you think quiet John-like thoughts and keep your yappy little mouth shut.”  
  
Sherlock snorted from behind John’s shoulder as they approached the door. He had dropped back to allow John to take the lead. There was a long pause after John rang the bell.  
  
John had the urge to reach back and grab Sherlock’s hand, but at the last second, noticed a camera over the door. Then they were buzzed in.  
  
The inside was bright with rows of huge lights high overhead. The room was cavernous and many men and women wearing blue coveralls, blue Nitrile gloves and surgical facemasks worked over long silver tables at the far end. Against the back wall were refrigerated units and machines that looked like ultrasound machines mated with office copy machines. High up on one side of the building was a glassed-in crow’s nest, where they could just see Caleb’s blonde head bent over a computer screen. He looked out the glass and smiled at them.  
  
Caleb clanged down the metal stairs and greeted them with a cheery wave.  
  
“Hello. Welcome to HQ,” he said.  
  
John smiled briefly and Sherlock nodded.  
  
“Let me show you around,” Caleb said.  
  
They passed by a man in medical scrubs and a white lab coat sitting at what looked like a little stainless steel kitchenette. On the counter in front of him was a human leg.  
  
Caleb gestured as he walked, “Tendon, cartilage and bone harvesting.”  
  
John looked at the man working on the leg. Most of his face was covered, but he thought he saw a flicker of fear in the man’s eyes.  
  
“Tissue baths,” Caleb said, gesturing as they passed by three large, round machines that looked like slow cookers.  
  
John also spied a centrifuge and a table that held a large bone saw. The room was chilly and smelled faintly of rotten meat. _Disturbing_. He tried not to think of the human beings these people were cutting up. John had seen the numbers in Sherlock’s research (2 million products created from human tissue sold every year in the States), but it was all too real now that he was standing in the middle of it. This was a huge operation, which meant there were so many more people than Simon to be concerned about. He saw no computers, desks or paperwork. The administrative stuff must be in the crow’s nest. He saw Simon coming towards them and put his game face on.  
  
“Sherlock! Good to see you,” Simon came at John with his hand extended. He pumped his arm and gave a couple of manly pats to his bad shoulder. John bit back a wince.  
  
Simon ignored Sherlock and continued walking toward where the bulk of the workers laboured. The man was even better at dismissing people than Sherlock. John stole a glance at the detective. His John impression apparently consisted of lagging behind and unfocused fumbling.  
  
“Nice cornea samples you delivered,” Simon said. “Jamal here said they were in excellent condition.”  
  
They had stopped at a workstation of a brown-skinned man wearing a clear face mask who held a scalpel in one hand and an eyeball in another.  
  
John took another look around at the room. It looked like all the employees were minorities, the little exposed skin in the room a spectrum of browns.  
  
“That’s great. Your operation here is very impressive, too,” John said.  
  
He heard Sherlock make a dismissive noise, but continued to talk as they passed more stainless steel work stations.  
  
“How many medical supply companies and doctors do you serve out of here?” John asked.  
  
Simon ignored his question.  
  
“Of course, we don’t expect you to have something as large as this right away,” Simon said. “You will start small, a couple of bodies a week, and expand as your reputation is built and as demand continues to grow.”  
  
He continued as he led them into the section with the most heavy concentration of blue-clad workers.  
  
“Some tricks of the trade: A building in an industrial area; a cover business that can also serve to dispose of waste -- ours is a landscaping company that also installs patios and paving stones -- what’s left over gets buried under concrete and brick. We also employ illegal aliens. If you need specialists, legal aliens work just as well. It’s easy to find people who have science and medicine backgrounds but are not able to find work in their field here. These people know how to keep their mouths shut.”  
  
This last part was directed at Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock just met Simon’s pointed look with a glare.  
  
“And if they don’t, well, I can show you how to deal with that, too.”  
  
Simon moved to a workstation, reached onto a tray filled with surgical instruments and pulled out a sterile-wrapped scalpel. John shot a look at Caleb, who was standing between him and Sherlock. His smile was gone, but he didn’t look concerned. In fact, he had a gleam of anticipation in his eyes.  
  
Simon grabbed a gloved hand of the closest masked worker, who snatched his hand back. Simon just slowly put out his hand, palm up. A shiver ran through John as he watched resignation settle across the man. The worker slowly put his hand in Simon’s.  
  
Simon stripped the Nitrile glove off the man’s hand and pushed up his sleeve before applying the blade to skin. The man was trembling and stifled a cry of pain.  
  
John’s heart beat wildly. He could hear a woman start to cry behind him. He looked at Sherlock, but something was wrong. He appeared to be frozen to the spot, his eyes unfocused and his mouth working silently. John forced aside the impulse to go to him. First he had to do something about the blood pouring down the forearm of the worker.  
  
He pushed Simon aside. He had cut a 5-centimetre slit into the soft underside of the man’s arm. Luckily, it didn’t appear to be deep or be close to any major arteries. It was mostly for show. John hoped the autoclave he had seen was being put to use on a regular basis as he grabbed the cloth that had been covering the instrument tray. Unsure about the man’s grasp of English, he used gestures as well as words as he wrapped the arm and instructed the man to press firmly.  
  
“That was a fine bit of theatre,” John said to Simon. His hands were completely steady. “Thank you for the demonstration. However, John and I aren’t here to be entertained. I think we can keep our employees under control without bloodletting like some ancient Mesopotamian witch doctor.”  
  
John tried not to look at Sherlock. He didn’t want to draw attention to him if he still didn’t have himself under control.  
  
“Well, we can talk management styles all day, I suppose,” Simon said. He looked disappointed. The whole work floor was silent, except for the woman’s quiet weeping. “I find this to be very effective. Especially ---”  
  
“Yes, thank you. I believe he said we’ve got it,” Sherlock’s booming baritone rang out through the cavernous room. He was speaking much more loudly than necessary, like he was having trouble modulating the volume of his voice.  
  
Everyone turned toward Sherlock.  
  
“This is exactly what I’m concerned about, Sherlock,” Simon said to John, eyes narrowed. “Some people don’t know their place. An operation like ours can’t be effective if there is a power struggle from day one.”  
  
“That’s not a concern,” John said. “John is firmly in hand.”  
  
“It is a concern for me. It doesn’t seem like John respects you,” Simon said. “As far away as I’ll be, I won’t be able to supervise.”  
  
“Well, that’s good. Our employees will be glad to hear the blood they will be working with will not be their own,” Sherlock said.  
  
“John, maybe you aren’t really understanding the structure of the operation here.” Simon stalked toward Sherlock, scalpel still in hand. “You work for Sherlock. Sherlock works for me.”  
  
John’s felt a chill. He rushed to put himself between Sherlock and Simon. He grabbed Sherlock’s hand and twisted. With his arm held high against his back, he frog marched him toward the front door.  
  
Once away from the crowd, he released him, but stood very close and kept his voice low.  
  
“Can’t you just think of something else for a bit? Reorganise your sock index or something.”  
  
Sherlock was belligerent.  
  
“Yes, _sir_.”  
  
“Sarcasm will not help sell this, either.”  
  
Sherlock glared.  
  
“Maybe you should wait outside.”  
  
“No,” Sherlock said, incensed. “Unless you’re in a hurry to get slashed.”  
  
“Then play along,” he hissed.  
  
“I am,” Sherlock said, keeping his voice barely audible. “You need to add a bit of colour.”  
  
John just stared at Sherlock. _Shit. Colour, as in red._ Sherlock was pushing for a display of power and violence. Did he think that Simon was about to kick them out? Showing concern for the bleeding man -- was that a huge weakness to Simon? He didn’t understand where Sherlock’s head was at or why he had looked so glassy. John tried once more to do it his way.  
  
“Simon, perhaps Caleb can complete the tour down here with John and you and I can discuss logistics in your office.”  
  
“That won’t be necessary,” Simon said, casting a swift glance at the glass-enclosed office high above them. “I think we are done here.”  
  
 _Shit shit shit. This whole thing was a test he was failing._  
  
“I told you he would back out,” Sherlock said, putting on his most irritatingly arrogant tone. “He couldn’t make the operation work in London last time, and here he is with the perfect team in place for expansion and can’t pull the trigger. Just like when he worked with his father.”  
  
John kept his features blank. No doubt about it. He was going to have to hit him before Simon did something worse. He lashed out quickly, a short pop to the mouth that didn’t have any power behind it, but would -- yes -- bleed immediately and impressively.  
  
Sherlock’s hand went to his lips and came away wet with blood. He looked a bit stunned.  
  
“Apologise to Simon,” John instructed.  
  
Sherlock’s eyes shifted around the room and back to John.  
  
“If you want to continue to work with me, you’ll apologise to Simon,” John said. He kept his voice low, hoping it was coming across as quietly menacing, and tried not to be distracted by the red on Sherlock’s lips. He wanted to run his tongue over it. He swiped his own lips and held Sherlock’s eyes.  
  
Sherlock shifted, looked at Simon and mumbled “I apologise.”  
  
John felt a change in the atmosphere.  
  
“Good. Now go wait in the car,” John told him.  
  
Sherlock looked like he was going to tell him no, but then turned on his heel and walked out.  
  
John watched him until he went back out into the glare and then turned back to Simon.  
  
“Let’s continue.”  
  
Simon raised an eyebrow.  
  
“Simon. John may have trouble controlling his mouth, but he knows his place. There are no power struggles.”  
  
Simon nodded once and walked past the injured man toward a bank of refrigerators at the far back wall.  
  
\-------------------------  
  
Sherlock wiped blood from his lips and stalked to the car. He knew he had done the right thing -- the only thing -- manipulating Simon into allowing John to stay, but now he was stuck outside with a sore lip, a partial erection and nothing to do but torture himself. Sherlock seethed. At least he no longer had to play the toady in front of a neanderthal like Simon Frost. The whole thing left him uneasy -- something about Frost’s organization was screamingly wrong, and it wasn’t just that he subscribed to the typical fear tactics of an blazingly ignorant mobster.  
  
John was safe for now, Sherlock told himself -- he had a gun; they aren’t going to do anything with Sherlock right outside.  
  
He paced around the car. Sherlock considered going to get cigarettes, but immediately rejected the idea of leaving John alone.  
  
His mind was a jumble. In telling John about his hunt for Moriarty’s three henchmen, he had apparently opened himself up to a flashback. He hadn’t been faced with reliving those blood-soaked hours for many months.  
  
Although it had a negative effect on Sherlock, his confession seemed to have improved John’s state of mind. Although pushing Simon aside to tend to the bleeding man had been a mistake, John had quickly recovered and done a brilliant job playing the domineering criminal ringleader. He certainly has that German Shepherd go-for-the-throat instinct.  
  
One side of his face quirked up, thinking of their exchange on the way in. Of course, Sherlock saw the different parts that make up John. Too well, actually. Sometimes he can't tear his eyes away.  
  
Sherlock touched his lip again and wiped away more blood. His hand was shaking and a vision of a naked John striking him across the cheek popped unbidden into his head.  
  
He shook his head and tried to clear it. He thought of several courses of action that would allow him to make progress on the case. Unfortunately, he was chained to the spot until he knew John was safe, so he only had a couple of things he could do from there. He pulled out his mobile and called Mycroft.  
  
“I need the name of the U.S. government branch that regulates human tissue trade.”  
  
“Hello, dear brother. How are you?”  
  
Sherlock said nothing.  
  
“How is John? Did he enjoy his shopping spree this morning? I’ll wager he looks rather fine in his expensive new suit.”  
  
Sherlock refused to rise to the bait.  
  
“I’ll take that as, ‘Yes, he looks good enough to eat.’”  
  
“Interesting choice of words. Replacing one hedonistic pleasure with another these days?”  
  
“Well, I just thought that if you weren’t interested, it’s a shame to let poor John languish.”  
  
“A truly pathetic attempt to make me jealous. John is still using you as the whipping boy for the whole Moriarty thing. And he never much cared for you to begin with.”  
  
Mycroft sighed.  
  
“Yes, I suppose that does explain why he would reject me. Doesn’t really explain away the last three women who approached him at the pub, though,” Mycroft said. He waited a beat, but Sherlock kept quiet, determined not to encourage this line of conversation. “But his reserves of patience and loyalty are not bottomless. Someone will come along someday who is honest about how much he means to them. That’s not something he’ll turn his back on when his only other option is sitting around listening to your waspish whinging.”  
  
“Relationship advice. What doesn’t the government do these days?”  
  
“That very good advice was from your brother, not the government,” Mycroft said. Even from across an ocean, Sherlock could hear he was grinding his teeth. “... The answer to your question is there isn’t a U.S. regulatory organization.”  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous.”  
  
“If they dealt in whole organs or blood, then, yes, but bone and skin? No,” Mycroft said. “You could call Interpol, but I think you might have burned that bridge when you stole documents from them.”  
  
Sherlock hung up the phone and immediately dialled Molly.  
  
“Don’t say my name,” he said as soon as she answered. “You can use your silly pseudonyms if you wish.”  
  
Molly paused, her voice low and tight. “What’s happened, Boris?”  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
  
“Nothing yet – I’m completely locked out of this investigation – reduced to sitting in a parking lot because my partner has a funny hat.”  
  
“…Wha...” Molly started.  
  
“Nevermind. Do you report tissue donations to a government office?”  
  
“Um ... No. The hospital keeps records and the city documents every John Doe and what becomes of the body, but if it is a person who had given consent for tissue donations, the government doesn’t require a report. It’s handled between the family and the doctors.”  
  
He hates when Mycroft is right. And hates even more that he hadn’t realized the complete lack of government oversight.  
  
“Damn it. Why didn’t you tell me that before? Why are we even doing this if there are no officials to turn evidence over to?” He was practically shouting. Not a good move, considering how close he was to the building that held a mad crime ringleader and John. Sherlock took a breath.  
  
“Interpol, of course,” Molly said, her voice rising in retaliation. Time and familiarity had reduced his ability to make her quail. “They are investigating; they must be planning on prosecuting via some international trade law or something.”  
  
He changed tactics, but he didn’t change his tone.  
  
“They are giving -- “ he searched for a proper pseudonym for John that Molly would grasp.  
  
“Rocky?” Molly supplied.  
  
Sherlock let out a small laugh. First dogs, and now a cartoon squirrel. He doubted John would be pleased with his new nickname.  
  
“OK -- Rocky -- instructions for setting up a facility in London. Did you manage to rent a suitable space?”  
  
“Yes. Your contact did exactly as you said. I’m now officially –“  
  
“Shut up, you idiot,” he hissed. “Don’t say any more than you have to right now. Just TRY to be a little subtle, can you?”  
  
“Ha,” Molly’s laugh was the most bitter noise he’d ever heard come from her, even after a year of forcing her to lie to John’s face about his own death. “You may be the president of Mensa, but you certainly wouldn’t be able to pick subtle out of a line up. Stop screaming at me. This has nothing at all to do with me and everything to do with the fact that -- your partner -- is out of your sight right now.”  
  
Sherlock gave no response. He glared at the blank face of the building.  
  
“Besides, these are burner phones -- they can’t be traced to us.”  
  
She had a point. Although anyone could be listening, it would be difficult to make something stick in court. Actually, pretty much everything she said had been spot on.  
  
“Tell me what’s happening,” Molly said. She had already forgiven him with her characteristic softheartedness.  
  
He ground the palm of his free hand into one eye and took in a huge lungful of air.  
  
“I was … distracted and anxious when we got here. The contact took Rocky for the boss,” Sherlock said, reluctantly. “And he apparently believes me to be an ignorant lackey with ambitions to rip the reigns of the operation from Rocky’s hands.”  
  
“So Rocky has been in charge?” Molly giggled. “No wonder you’re so grumpy.”  
  
Sherlock grunted his assent.  
  
“Rocky has had to appear to be in charge. And this man -- he’s more than a bit mad. He just cut a chunk out of a man to demonstrate his employee discipline techniques.”  
  
Molly of course, knew John had been dealing with PTSD issues and had been keeping his distance from Sherlock. Nevertheless, Sherlock left out holding John during a panic attack or spilling his secrets in a rental car or how he was currently fighting an erection that had sprung up when his flatmate had punched him in the mouth.  
  
“And now, you are sitting on a street watching a warehouse, wondering if Rocky is in danger and driving yourself mad?”  
  
Sherlock pulled a face.  
  
“I was kicked out after – _Oh_.”  
  
“Oh?” Molly asked.  
  
“Warehouse!” Sherlock took a long look around the area – an industrial area far from a busy street or businesses. It looked a lot like the area where Daryl Venure was found. Could he have been involved with Simon?  
  
“I’ve got to go,” he said and hung up. He suddenly had a few more calls to make.  
  
\-----------------------------  
  
John watched as Sherlock stabbed a green bean. John had emerged from the meeting with Simon unscathed and starving. He had found a steakhouse near their hotel and dragged a petulant Sherlock there. He had refused to eat anything until John told him every detail of what had happened in his absence. Which was not much. Simon hadn’t revealed any actual useful information about contacts or suppliers, only given instructions to John about setting up the London operation.  
  
Now Sherlock was just moving pieces of his $30 steak around his plate. His lips were a little swollen, but Sherlock had brushed aside John’s expressions of concern and after taking a short phone call with Irene, had stopped speaking to him.  
  
“Do you have flashbacks of my suicide?” Sherlock suddenly asked.  
  
“Jesus, Sherlock,” John said, under his breath, shaking his head.  
  
“Do you? I know you have nightmares.”  
  
John tensed. He stared at his plate.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“So, yes,” Sherlock said. He studied him for a few seconds, pawed at the air with his fork and peered into the distance. “Two months ago -- at the crime scene where the man’s body was discovered near St Paul’s. You froze when you saw the body. Your breath rate increased, but you don’t usually have an adverse reaction to dead bodies or gore. You asked Sally for one of those peppermints she carries in case of a particularly malodorous body. But this one was fresh, so it wasn’t the smell.”  
  
John took a deep breath.  
  
“No.”  
  
Sherlock waited.  
  
“I don’t know what it was. Maybe that he was laying face-down on the pavement.” He shrugged. “I’d rather not talk about this.”  
  
“And soon after I came back. We were at Barts with Molly. At first, I didn’t recognize anything was wrong because you were barely talking to me. But you were frozen in place for a very long time and wouldn’t respond to my questions. Then you asked Molly for an ice cube from her drink, and you just held it in your hand, which was odd.”  
  
John said nothing as he put another bite of steak into his mouth.  
  
“Sensory overload -- it has to be something strong that doesn’t have any connection to Afghanistan -- or me -- it brings you out of the flashback.”  
  
“Yes. Are we done?”  
  
He gestured to the waiter for the check.  
  
 _Sherlock is bored, so he has to start taking me apart?_  
  
“I’m still eating.”  
  
“ _Bon appetit._ I’ll be outside.” He put his napkin on the table and pushed his chair back.  
  
“John, sit down.”  
  
“I’m not going to sit here and be your substitute punching bag. I’m not Simon Frost, Sherlock, although I certainly understand why he dislikes you.”  
  
“Do you think standing outside in a crowd of people is going to make you feel better?”  
  
“It can’t make me feel worse,” John said, and walked away.  
  
But he was wrong, he discovered as soon as he got outside. There were too many people and John was not able to keep an eye on all the potential sources of danger. He felt the anxiety that Sherlock had created grow. He stood with his back to the outside wall of the restaurant and swept his eyes over the street and sidewalk. Sherlock always does this -- he feels slighted or bored and looks at me as a mental exercise instead of a person.  
  
“Once again, you have misconstrued my intentions,” Sherlock’s voice came from beside him suddenly, and John startled. “I may be bringing up uncomfortable topics, but it’s not to poke at old wounds.”  
  
John looked him in the eye.  
  
“Why then?”  
  
“I have them,” Sherlock said. “Flashbacks. Not as often anymore. But I still see myself killing those men, on a loop. When Simon started cutting  …” Sherlock trailed off. “I wondered how you dealt with it.”  
  
“Boy, we’re a pair, aren’t we?” John asked, shaking his head.  
  
“Inside or outside better for you?” Sherlock asked, starting down the street.  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“Walking near the street or walking on the inside of the pavement near other people? Where do you feel less anxious?”  
  
He felt jerked around like a rag doll as often as Sherlock had switched gears on him today -- angry and aloof and then confiding and gentle. And, clearly, he already knew the answer. Sherlock always walked on the inside of the the pavement, when he wasn’t plowing ahead without him.  
  
“This is fine,” John mumbled.  
  
“Good. Come along then,” he said, as he surged ahead.  
  
“Where are we going?”  
  
“One place where you will never think of fake suicides or war zones.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes John to Serpentine in order to pick up some more supplies from Irene. After being greeted by Camellia and a dom named Suzanne, things spin out of control quickly, and Sherlock gets trapped in a place between pleasure and pain -- and not the good kind.
> 
> Warnings for explicit sex, somewhat dub-con and het.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my darling beta [HiddenLacuna,](http://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenLacuna/pseuds/HiddenLacuna) who is being very gentle with a first-timer.

_Sometimes I breathe you in_  
 _And I know you know_  
 _And sometimes you take a swim_  
 _Found your writing on my wall_  
 _If my hearts soaking wet_  
 _Boy your boots can leave a mess_  
  
 _Hey Jupiter_  
 _Nothing’s been the same_  
 _So are you gay_  
 _Are you blue_  
 _Thought we both could use a friend_  
 _To run to_  
 _And I thought I wouldn't have to keep_  
 _With you_  
 _Hiding_  
  
 _Thought I knew myself so well_  
 _All the dolls I had_  
 _Took my leather off the shelf_  
 _Your apocalypse was fab_  
 _For a girl who couldn't choose between_  
 _The shower or the bath_  
  
 _And I thought I wouldn't have to be_  
 _With you_  
 _A magazine_  
  
 _No one's picking up the phone_  
 _Guess it's clear he's gone_  
 _And this little masochist_  
 _Is lifting up her dress_  
 _Guess I thought I could never feel_  
 _The things I feel_  
 _Hey Jupiter_  
  
\-- “Hey Jupiter,” Tori Amos  
  
Ronald still had the same broad smile plastered on his face when he opened the door to Serpentine. Sherlock wondered what kind of security guard is always so stupidly happy. The man took their coats and told them Camellia was in the Racer Room.  
  
The room was dim, but warm and cozy, a roaring fire casting shadows.  
  
Sherlock spotted Camellia at the bar, talking to the bartender and another woman, while a dozen or so scattered couples chatted and laughed throughout the room. Most people were dressed in nice cocktail attire, but one woman was dressed in a full black latex catsuit. That must be so difficult to get on and off, Sherlock thought.  
  
Another woman walked into the room behind them and gave them an appraising look. Her hair was a shocking red and she was wearing a corset and a garter belt with lacy black stockings and the highest heels Sherlock had ever seen. There were o-rings dangling off of her hips, waist and shoulders.  
  
“Hello, boys. Can I get you something to drink?” Stockings asked.  
  
John asked for a beer, but Sherlock shook her off. John happily watched her walk to the bar, where Camellia threw her head back and let loose a peal of laughter. When she opened her eyes again, she spotted them. Sherlock was immediately sorry he had brought John here.  
  
She was wearing a purple dress with a short, shiny skirt that billowed a bit as she walked. When she got closer, though, Sherlock realized the lacy top half of the dress was transparent and she had nothing on under it.  
  
John didn’t move a muscle, and solidly kept his eyes locked on hers.  
  
“Sherlock! You brought John. Just like Irene asked; such a good boy,” Camellia said with false familiarity. She attempted to move into Sherlock’s personal space, but Sherlock deflected her under the pretense of introducing John.  
  
“John, this is Irene’s wife, Camellia.”  
  
“John Watson,” he said, extending his hand. “Nice to meet you.”  
  
“Oh, we don’t stand on ceremony here, _petit ami_ ,” she said, batting away his hand and then sliding in between the two of them and threading an arm through each of their own, so they walked arm-in-arm across the room to a couch in front of the fireplace. “I’ve heard so much about you from Sherlock, and let me say he severely underemphasized how sexy you are.”  
  
John looked bemused. Everywhere they went lately, John was getting compliments. He was going to get a huge head, Sherlock thought.  
  
She lightly pushed them back until they sat on the sofa and smiled as Stockings brought John his beer.  
  
“Thank you so much, Suzanne. Did you meet John and Sherlock?”  
  
“I was just about to,” Suzanne said, and sat very close to Sherlock, turned towards him, one leg tucked up underneath her, and an arm behind him on the back of the sofa.  
  
“Camellia, Irene said she has something for us?” Sherlock said, ignoring Suzanne. The faster they could get out of there, the better.  
  
“Yes, certainly,” Camellia said. She waved down the Catwoman.  
  
“Could you tell Irene that her guests have arrived.”  
  
She smiled down at them both.  
  
“John, has Sherlock told you about what we do at the Serpentine?”  
  
“He didn’t tell me much.”  
  
Camellia giggled.  
  
“Oh, Sherlock, always keeping everything so close to the vest, isn’t he,” she said, tilting her head as she looked at Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock couldn’t figure out what she was playing at, but he suspected that it involved the both of them in a very compromised position.  
  
“Well, I’m afraid that won’t do here,” Camellia said. She leaned down to stage whisper. “We don’t like secrets here.”  
  
Her handcuff charms swung very close to John’s face as Camellia leaned in close. Sherlock watched his eyes widen a fraction.  
  
“Freedom?” he read.  
  
“That’s right,” she said, pulling herself back up to tower over them. She put a protective hand around the charms. “Freedom is exactly what the Serpentine is all about. Secrets keep you locked up,” she lightly placed her index finger on his forehead, “here.”  
  
Camellia let her fingertip run lightly down between John’s eyes to the tip of his nose, then down to trace his lips. His tongue flicked out and swiped his top lip where her finger had just been.  
  
Beside Sherlock, Suzanne let out a slight giggle and he felt her fingertips on the back of his neck. He shot her a glare, but she met his eyes with a tiny, knowing smile, and didn’t back off.  
  
“When you don’t share your secrets, you are enslaved by them,” Camellia continued. “When you share the deep, dark places inside yourself, you get what you want. When you get what you want, you can be set free.”  
  
“But there’s always a price, isn’t there? Sometimes getting what we want just isn’t … worth the cost,” John said. “Sometimes what we can can hurt other people. The ends don’t always justify the means.”  
  
Sherlock recognized the phrase from their conversation in the car. Was John trying to tell him something or was he unconsciously repeating himself?  
  
“Oh, Sherlock, your soldier is a philosopher,” she purred, but didn’t take her eyes off John. She was looking at him like he was the only thing in the room.  
  
She leaned in closer to John.  
  
“How can we know unless you open up, though?” she asked. “Do you have secrets, _chéri_?”  
  
John looked like he was getting a crick in his neck staring up at her and trying to avoid looking at her breasts, which were centimetres from his nose.  
  
Sherlock was feeling uncomfortably warm in front of the fire.  
  
“Everyone has secrets,” John said.  
  
“Do you want to tell them to me?” Camellia’s voice was getting quieter and quieter and John was unconsciously leaning closer to her as she bent over him. Her eyes flicked past Sherlock and Suzanne apparently got some sort of signal because she got up and walked to the large glass case beside the fireplace and took out something.  
  
“Secrecy is a hard habit to break,” John said.  
  
She walked to the far side of the sofa and took John’s right wrist, expertly wrapping it in a leather cuff and buckling it in two smooth moves.  
  
“Hey!” John said, surprised, but not alarmed. His left hand was still occupied with the beer bottle. The other cuff went on Camellia’s left wrist.  
  
Sherlock stood. It would be a mistake to let this go any further.  
  
“Playtime is over, Camellia,” he said.  
  
“Green’s not a good colour for you, Sherlock,” she said, voice low with warning, but the smile still on her face.  
  
Both their heads turned as someone entered the room. Sherlock had expected Irene, but, instead, Caleb walked in and took a seat at the bar without a glance at them.  
  
Sherlock felt something tighten on his wrist. Suzanne had used the distraction to slip a noose of black rope around his wrist and pull the knot tight.  
  
He looked at John, who had spotted Caleb, too. Hoping not to draw his attention, Sherlock sank back onto the sofa.  
  
“That’s better,” Camellia said. “You’ve come to your senses.”  
  
His senses were the last thing he was in possession of at that moment. John was looking at him for guidance, but Camellia pulled John’s face forward and kissed him deeply. She climbed up over him, one leg between John’s legs and one knee on the sofa between Sherlock and John. Suzanne reached over Sherlock and took the beer bottle from John’s hand, setting it on a low table behind her.  
  
John brought his hands up as if to push Camellia off, but she quickly threaded together the fingers of their joined hands. She guided John’s other hand down along her ribs to her hip.  
  
Sherlock watched as John’s resistance immediately crumbled and his fingertips dug into violet material Sherlock heard a small moan from John as he pulled her down on top of him.  
  
Suzanne was sitting beside Sherlock on her knees.  
  
“He’s a lovely kisser,” she whispered in his ear.  
  
“Don’t,” he snapped. He used the pretense of talking to her to look past the unnaturally bright red hair spilling over her shoulder at Caleb, who seemingly still hadn’t even noticed them.  
  
He turned his attention back to John.  
  
“You want to just watch him?” Suzanne said, turning over his bound hand and threading her fingers through his.  
  
Sherlock was not sure what was more surprising, that he was in this situation at all or that he don’t know how to extract himself from it. A dark feeling very similar to jealously pushed up against the back of his eyes and he closed them, and tried to banish the stupidly dull emotion.  
  
Suzanne giggled. “He looks so happy,” she said. Sherlock opened his eyes.  
  
John was clearly smiling, despite being in the middle of a full-on snog. Sherlock watched as his free hand snaked up to cup one breast through the lace of Camellia’s top and Camellia reached down between them and groped him.  
  
He did look so happy. He also looked very, very hard, and, Sherlock thought, so amazingly gorgeous, he hurt. There was a disconnect for a second before Sherlock realized the ache he was feeling was his own erection making his trousers feel excessively tight.  
  
There was a thrumming in his ears. He closed his eyes, and willed this not to be happening. Severely illogical, but then again, he hadn’t a single logical thought in his head right now. Running was out; yelling -- seemed like it would be a bit of an overreaction to his friend being kissed; and even he knew pushing a woman onto the floor would be a bit not good.  
  
John. Kissing. After holding him last night, something had shifted a bit. He hadn’t even realized it, but watching him kiss someone else, a tiny little blossom of hope inside him curled back in on itself. Still. What he had did last night wasn’t for him, it was for John. John had needed it. Why shouldn’t he let John have this, too?  
  
“You sweet thing. You’ve got it bad, don’t you?” Suzanne said into his ear. The tone had changed, though. It was no longer teasing. “You want me to …” she brought her free hand to his wrist and acted like she was going to release him. Sherlock grabbed her hand to stop her. He knew this wouldn’t do anything to fill the hollow feeling he had when he looked at John, but he also was painfully aware he would never get any closer to him than this and he couldn’t tear himself away.  
  
John ran his hand up, fanned out over her throat and pushed up into Camellia’s hair. She broke the kiss and arched back as he closed his free hand into a fist and pulled just a little. He moaned and Camellia pushed down between her and John and undid his fly with one hand, reached in and pulled John’s hard cock out.  
  
John again made as if to stop her, but she slid out of reach onto her knees and cupped the head of his cock in her mouth. John groaned and touched her face as she took her mouth off and she ran a finger up the underside and then followed with her tongue. She cupped his balls and sucked him down in one long pull. John’s eyes rolled back as his head fell onto the back of the sofa and he bit down hard on his bottom lip, a strangled moan escaping.  
  
Sherlock felt it all over, his skin was tingling with the desire to reach out and grab John. His tongue could not leave his lips alone. Every time John let out a sigh, Sherlock’s nerves buzzed. He heard John whisper, “Oh, god yes,” and Sherlock never wanted anything more than he wanted John to be whispering that into his ear.  
  
Camellia still had hold of John’s bound hand, pressed into the seat of the sofa. John ran the fingers of his other hand through Camellia’s hair a couple of times before he again grabbed a handful. Apparently, John had a thing for hair. Sherlock’s hips were moving of their own accord, rocking up each time Camellia’s head dipped down.  
  
He was so focused on John, he barely noticed Suzanne moving until she had his zipper down. He gave a tense shake of the head but she ignored him and took a long swipe of her tongue, up one side and swirled all around the head, like she was enjoying a lolly, stroking the underside with a thumb. He pulled his hand from hers and balled it up. He almost cried out. The wet heat was a salve on his aching cock, but he very much didn’t want this woman touching him.  
  
He risked another look at Caleb, whose attention was on another couple near the bar who had drawn a small crowd and were engaged in something fairly acrobatic.  
  
Suzanne took him all in, and moved slowly down until he was buried in her throat. Sherlock couldn’t keep quiet any longer and he released a low moan from deep in his chest. John turned toward Sherlock, and they locked eyes for a few seconds, but John didn’t seem to be focusing very well. He gave Sherlock a small smirk as he took in what was happening, but he was soon distracted by Camellia. His breath got heavier and his fingers flexed and then wrapped around Camellia’s arm.  
  
“Faster,” he whispered. And oh, god, just that one word from him; it blocked everything else out.

  
“Yes,” a low hiss came from Sherlock without his bidding.  
  
Sherlock let his head drop forward and just listened to John’s breathy gasps building as Suzanne reached between his legs and stroked his balls and perineum, causing him to jerk upward. He could tell by John’s breathing that he was getting close and Sherlock lifted his head. He had to watch as John came. It was enthralling. John was making the same sounds Sherlock had heard before in the darkened flat, but this time, John wasn’t muffled by the door and the distance, but he was so close. In his head was a constant loop of _JohnJohnJohnJohn_. Sherlock pinched himself on the arm in an effort to gather his wits. He didn’t want to say it out loud. He tried to think of another word to replace it with, but nothing appeared.  
  
“Oh -- oh, Christ,” John said, dragging the word out, but still keeping his voice low despite being taken over. His hips writhed with the desperate need to move. He tapped Camellia’s arm, but she just sucked harder and dug her fingernails into John’s thigh. John squeezed his eyes shut and flung his head back and let out a deep noise that was half exhalation and half grunt. His hips jerked a couple of times and then slowed to gentle pumps as John took large gulps of air, his eyes still closed. His tongue flicked out and swiped at his lips.  
  
Sherlock bit his lip and moaned, leaning back. His orgasm was close, but now that John had finished, his self awareness came roaring back. He felt the end point moving farther away. He didn’t know what to do. Could he stop her and put away his cock and just walk out of there? By now, Caleb surely had spotted them. What was he thinking just letting this happen?  
  
 _John._ That was what he had been thinking.  
  
He opened his eyes. Camellia was leaning over John again, whispering into his ear and he was buttoning his trousers. He looked over at Sherlock and his blissed out smile flattened out; he looked concerned. Camellia settled herself beside John and smiled at Suzanne’s bobbing head and then began unbuckling the cuff that tied her to John. John gave him a strange little smile. Sherlock’s free hand was on the sofa between him and John, fingers splayed and arm tense and locked at the elbow. He must of had a pained look on his face. Camellia leaned close to John and said, “I think he needs some help.”  
  
John looked confused and he gave a small shake.  
  
“What …?”  
  
Sherlock felt trapped.  
  
Camellia took John’s hand and moved it onto Sherlock’s forearm.  
  
Sherlock couldn’t help it, his eyes half closed and he made a small sound.  
  
“Talk to him,” Camellia said.  
  
When he opened his eyes again, John was smiling. He shifted toward Sherlock and put his other hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.  
  
“Sherlock,” John said. “I see him. I know he’s here and I’ve got my eye on him. He hasn’t looked over here once. He’s all the way on the other side of the room and I’ve got you.”  
  
The sweet, tingling pressure started to build again. Sherlock’s hips canted and he moaned. Suzanne moaned in response and the vibration filled his cock. John licked his lips and he smiled.  
  
“Good. That feels so good, doesn’t it?  
  
“Oh god,” Sherlock said in surrender. He let his head fall back. John didn’t remove his hands and Sherlock willed him to hang on and to keep talking to him.  
  
John’s hand began to slowly brush up and down Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock was sure he was trying to be comforting, but he could feel every hair as John’s hand slid over and back, and Sherlock had to fight the impulse to grab his hand and suck on his fingers. He tried to swallow, but his throat was completely dry. A wave of vertigo gripped him and he jerked his head back up and opened his eyes wide. He really shouldn’t let this happen. It was a mistake.  
  
John made a comforting shushing noise and gave his bicep a small pinch that shot fire through him.  
  
“Stop it. Whatever you’re thinking, just don’t. It’s OK for you to want this,” John said.  
  
 _You wouldn’t be saying that if you knew what I really wanted._  
  
John shifted his hand and ran the back of it lightly up his back of his forearm and a shiver ran through Sherlock’s whole body, making him arch up into Suzanne’s mouth. He was in its grip now and he couldn’t have stopped if Caleb held a damn gun to his head. He closed his eyes and imagined John pushing Suzanne off him and climbing on top of him -- John was so close so close -- it would take so little.  
  
“Her mouth is so wet and warm and it’s been so long since you felt that soft pressure on your cock, isn’t it?” John said. His voice was quiet, but insistent. “So nice. Just let her take care of you. There’s just you and one other person and that’s all that matters.”  
  
Sherlock almost laughed at that. _Wrong._  
  
The palm of his hand was pressing into Sherlock’s arm again, and moving faster now, matching the tempo of Sherlock’s breath. John twisted his hand, up and around as he neared the elbow, then back down to the wrist. John’s eyes were pinned on his face, but his vision was a bit blurry and he couldn’t read John’s expression.  
  
Oh, god. He was going to come. John was touching him and watching him and he was going to come. He moaned with unfulfilled desire and pleasure. He moaned because he could not -- COULD NOT -- say the words he wanted to say. He grabbed John’s shirt in his fist as the wave crested and he let it take him under. He neither felt nor heard anything for a couple of moments, but just allowed the air to flow in and out. The release was such a relief, he just wanted to slide down into the warm feeling. He let go of John’s shirt and felt John pat his shoulder a couple of times.  
  
He roused himself as Suzanne’s arm tugged at his own.  
  
“I need your help,” she said, plucking at the rope.  
  
“You got it on there yourself,” Sherlock said, weakly.  
  
John chuckled.  
  
“Oh, for god’s sake, Sherlock, help the woman.”  
  
Together they loosened the knot from Suzanne’s wrist and she pulled it off. As he tucked himself away, he saw little half-moon indentations on his forearm -- John’s fingernails. He resisted the temptation to run a finger over the marks as he tried to remember when John had dug in his fingernails hard enough to leave the little white lines. It must have been when he was coming with John’s shirt fisted in his hand. He was angry he couldn’t remember. He gathered himself and looked up at Suzanne as she stood.  
  
She grinned.  
  
“You’re welcome.”  
  
Sherlock looked at Camellia.  
  
“Where is she?” he asked, rejecting the euphoric feeling and embracing his rising anger.  
  
“Sherlock...” John said in warning.  
  
He was up and at the stairs before Camellia could answer or John could stop him.  
  
He took the them two at a time as he heard footsteps behind him.  
  
He passed a couple of rooms with plaques and then found a door without a label.  
  
He crashed through it.  
  
Irene sat behind a desk, wearing a modestly cut dress in fire red. Sherlock moved toward it like a bull.  
  
“What are you doing working with Simon Frost?” he demanded. “Tell me now. You know I will find out.”  
  
Irene looked completely taken off guard.  
  
“Is that your idea of a thank you?”  
  
He slammed his fist on the desk and pointed at her.  
  
“Irene, so help me, I will not play games with you this time. I will take this place apart.”  
  
John, Camellia and Ronald piled into the small room.  
  
“Back off, man,” Ronald said, advancing on Sherlock.  
  
Irene held out a hand.  
  
“It’s OK. Mr Holmes and I just need to talk about proper etiquette.”  
  
“You sure, Ms Adler?  
  
She smiled and inclined her head. “I assure you I can handle him. We’ll call if we need you, Ronald.”  
  
“Holy god,” John said, scanning the room. The walls of held a large number of chains, leather cuffs in different sizes and shapes, spreader bars, leather straps and even a couple of pulleys.  
  
“Irene. Talk to me right now about why Simon Frost’s number one goon is downstairs,” Sherlock said. “On the very night you decide to distract me with a couple of whores.”  
  
Camellia made an offended noise.  
  
“You ungrateful priss!” she got up in Sherlock’s face. “Suzanne and I are not whores. We don’t have sex for money.”  
  
She turned on Irene.  
  
“Are you going to let him talk like that? We got down on our knees at your request. You just let him run in here and spout bullshit like this?”  
  
“Sherlock. Sit. Now.” Irene commanded. He sat.  
  
“Camellia, dear, I will straighten this out,” Irene said, soothingly. “You should get back downstairs to our guests.”  
  
Camellia looked like thunder and she took one step toward Sherlock.  
  
 _“Coeur noir,”_ Camellia spat at Sherlock. His head jerked up.  
  
 _"Si tu le touches encore une fois, je te montrerai ce qu’est la vraie douleur,"_   Sherlock said, keeping his voice low. He knew Camellia would tell Irene what he had said, but didn’t regret the words.  
  
John stepped toward Camellia and slid a hand around her back, gently guiding her away from Sherlock.  
  
“I’m sorry. His behaviour isn’t improved even with the addition of orgasms, apparently.” He gave her a sly smile. “But I’m grateful enough for both of us. Thank you,” he said, and kissed her cheek.  
  
Her expression softened.  
  
“You? I like. Be careful of that heartless _salaud_ , though. And don’t let him say anything rude to her,” Camellia said, venomously. She whispered in his ear. John got that little divot between his eyes that said something was happening he didn’t understand.  
  
“Thank you, Love,” Irene said. They exchanged sweet smiles and then Camellia sauntered out and shut the door behind her.  
  
“Now, who is downstairs?” Irene, suddenly all business, pointed to a bank of security camera screens. “Show me.”  
  
Sherlock considered her a few moments, then got up and pointed a long finger at a blond dot at the bar. He noticed one screen that clearly showed the couch where they had been sitting.  
  
“And he’s part of your investigation here?”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock said tersely. He glanced at John, who had inched close to the section of the wall that held the spreader bars and was looking at them with wonder on his face.  
  
“I don’t know why he’s here, but if he followed you here, it’s a coincidence,” she said. “That’s Caleb Ulises. He’s only been a member for a couple of months. I haven’t determined what he does for work yet, but I can tell you he likes pain -- to give it and get it -- and I’ve had good reports from the women he deals with. They all like him.”  
  
Sherlock considered what she said.  
  
“I can’t really tell you anything else. He’s been fairly close-lipped.”  
  
Sherlock jumped up and paced. Witnessing any part of what took place downstairs would hardly be shocking to a man who frequented Serpentine. He hadn’t attempted to hide his presence from them, so he wasn’t trying to gather evidence to use against them. Sherlock couldn’t parse what purpose Caleb would have to follow them here. Sherlock feared that any danger might be to John, Irene and the others who worked here, now that Caleb had seen Sherlock’s emotional response to John and his terribly obvious headlong run towards Irene.  
  
“He may not be dangerous, but his boss is.”  
  
Irene got a glint in her eye.  
  
“Excellent. It was starting to get a little boring around here.”  
  
“Irene, Simon Frost is violent and your little phone bank of secrets is not going to stop a man like that from hurting you or your employees. Or your wife.”  
  
“Good thing you have experience getting me out of those kinds of unpleasant situations,” she said, coolly.  
  
The little divot was back between John’s eyes.  
  
“John, dear, you look confused. I’m sorry, our aftercare hasn’t been top-notch this evening, has it? It seemed like you enjoyed yourself, though.”  
  
Despite John’s dislike of Irene, he was obviously still feeling too good to be rude to her.  
  
“I’ve no complaints.”  
  
“And that was very sweet of you to help Sherlock out,” Irene said with mock kindness. “I really expected Sherlock to literally run away from a woman’s touch and figured he would need a bit of convincing, which is why he was tied down.“  
  
Sherlock sneered.  
  
“I could have gotten free from that little string any time.”  
  
A slow smile spread across her face.  
  
“And yet … ” she said, cocking her head and looking pointedly at John.  
  
Sherlock gritted his teeth.  
  
“We’re done here,” and spun, leaving the room as quickly as he had entered it.  
  
John followed him down the hall, but pulled up short outside a room that read “Sidewinder.”  
  
“John, kindly come along. You’ve been distracted by sex enough for one night,” Sherlock stalked back impatiently and looked at what held John’s attention as Irene caught up to him, a small black case in her hands.  
  
“What’s that?” John asked, his voice hoarse and his eyes fixed on something in the room.  
  
“The ‘X’ is a St. Andrew’s Cross,” Irene said, a twitch of her lips betraying her amusement. “The bar is a paddling bench. Both are useful for when someone needs to be disciplined.” She leaned in close to John. “I think you agree that some people just need a strong hand, don’t you, John?”  
  
Sherlock reached out to pull John away, but John shot a bone-meltingly hot look that Sherlock had only imagined before. He dropped his hand and had to stop himself from taking a step back.  
  
John’s fierce look was quickly blanketed by a bland smile, but there was no doubt about it, he had been turned on by the thought of the St. Andrew’s Cross. Although he clearly had never seen most of the equipment he’d seen tonight, and Sherlock had never discovered anything more suggestive than condoms and lube while searching John’s bedroom, it seemed that John had a bit of dom in him. Sherlock couldn’t help the smirk that spread across his face. Then he remembered that it didn’t matter what kinks John had buried under that flat expression, being with men was not one of them.  
  
He gathered himself.  
  
“Now, John.”  
  
John began to follow him down the stairs, but Irene called him back.  
  
“Don’t forget this.” She handed over the bag that held listening devices. “It was his excuse for bringing you here, after all.”  
  
Sherlock couldn’t hear John’s response.  
  
Ronald was waiting at the bottom of the stairs with their coats.  
  
“Don’t look,” Sherlock said to the bouncer as he whipped his coat around and stuffed his arms in. “But there is a blond man at the bar. His name is Caleb Ulises, he is dangerous, and Irene is not taking my warnings to heart.”  
  
Ronald cocked his eyebrow at him as he handed John his coat.  
  
“I’m listening.”  
  
“John, is Caleb watching?” Sherlock said, keeping his eyes away from the bar, and desperately trying to keep his mind on business.  
  
“No, still ignoring us.”  
  
Sherlock had Ronald get out his phone and send a text to Sherlock’s phone.  
  
“Call me if he ever does anything out of the ordinary. Irene will tell you not to. She is dangerously overconfident,” he made an irked face and shook his head. “There are some situations a tight dress cannot get you out of.”  
  
Ronald nodded.  
  
Avoiding looking at Caleb or John, Sherlock breezed past Ronald and out the door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not a French speaker and I certainly don't know anything about Creole French, so if you see glaringly goofy mistakes, please let me know. What I MEANT for Camellia and Sherlock to be saying is: 
> 
> She calls him a "black heart," and he shoots back, "If you touch him again, I'll show you what real pain is." 
> 
> Then she calls him a bastard (or at least she does according to an online Cajun dictionary). Which he surely is, whatever language you speak.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John try to avoid the emotional fallout of having orgasms BESIDE each other rather than WITH each other, which is what they both secretly want.  
> Sherlock researches Caleb's background as he sends John into the lion's den alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost there, Johnlock fans! I know it's been a super long time since I updated. I had trouble birthin' this chapter. Sorry.
> 
> Thanks again to the crafty and hilarious [HiddenLacuna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenLacuna/pseuds/HiddenLacuna) for editing, helpful suggestions and gentle guidance. And for not holding my complete disregard of the Oxford comma against me.

  
_There's a point to all this dreaming_  
 _To every man his just desserts_  
 _And every time I caught you leaving_  
 _I had to dream awake, I had to dream awake_  
 _For every time I came home screaming_  
 _Got sent away, with no warnin' at all_  
 _I had to dream awake, I had to dream awake_  
 _There's a callin', a callin', a callin'_  
 _To everyone, who lost somethin'_  
 _Who had to dream awake, who had to dream awake_  
 _Take us under now, take us under now_  
 _There's a fight we’re not conceding_  
 _Where we have to the words get mixed_  
 _and the point is lost_  
 _We have to dream awake, we have to dream awake_  
 _To take us under now, take us under now_  
 _There's a warnin', a warmin', a warnin'_  
 _To everyone, who took somethin'_  
\-- “Dream Awake,” The Frames  
  
John walked quickly to keep up with Sherlock, who was speeding down the pavement, coat billowing out behind him.  
  
“Oi! Batman! I know Gotham needs saving, but slow down,” John yelled after him, still riding the endorphin high that made him feel all tingly.  
  
Unfortunately, Sherlock seemed tingle-proof, and wheeled on him with fire in his eyes. John tried to reel in his grin as Sherlock glared.  
  
“How can you be so stupidly happy? Don’t you realize what just happened?”  
  
“You are the only person in the world who would be this worked up about no-strings-attached blowjobs.”  
  
“Nothing is ever no strings with people like Simon or Irene,” Sherlock said, and continued his speedwalking.  
  
“Nevertheless,” John said. He refused to be bullied into feeling bad about this situation, not when he still had bright red lipstick on his cock. He’d barely even allowed himself a wank lately, much less had a woman with lovely café-au-lait skin give him head. And he’d actually helped Sherlock have what he suspected was his first non-self-administered orgasm in several years. He was sure he was going to feel very weird about that later, but right now, he felt no pain.  
  
He grinned at the hotel doorman, who looked stunned after Sherlock barreled past him. John caught up with him at the lift.  
  
“I came. You came. I can only assume that Caleb is having the pornographic time of his life, or will be very soon. Everyone is happy.”  
  
“I hope you will be as blissful when Simon is slicing and dicing you.”  
  
Sherlock stabbed at the button in the lift. He said nothing and continued to ignore John as they passed into the room.  
  
Sherlock flung himself, coat and all, onto his bed, his head against the headboard and his fingers steepled in front of his lips.  
  
“Irene gave me this,” John said, handing over the bag.  
  
Sherlock ignored the bag, and just mumbled “listening devices.”  
  
Since he refused to take it, John sat at the table and unzipped the case. He took out a handful of bugs and a contraption that looked like a body wire and transceiver.  
  
“Do you think the body wire is safe? They don’t exactly trust me still. They might decide to search me,” John said.  
  
“If you didn’t always have to play the White Knight maybe they would trust you,” Sherlock said with a sneer.  
  
John gritted his teeth.  
  
“You would have just let Simon cut into the man?”  
  
“This isn’t Doctors Without Borders, John, it’s a bloody international crime ring and you are supposed to be a hardened criminal.”  
  
“Sherlock, I know this day must seem to you to be wildly out of control, but the case isn’t ruined. You heard Irene -- Caleb wasn’t there for us. I’m going back to the warehouse tomorrow, I can place these bugs in the crow’s nest and we’ll get the information we need.”  
  
“Bugs won’t get us what we need fast enough,” Sherlock scoffed.  
  
John doubted Sherlock’s attitude would get better as long as he was locked out.  
  
“OK, want to just get this over with? Let’s go break into the warehouse and download their files and you’ll be scowling at familiar walls this time tomorrow.”  
  
“I really should have let Simon cut you up this afternoon. Clearly if you aren’t going to use your brain, someone else should get a whack at it.”  
  
“What’s wrong with that idea?” John continued to fiddle with the wire and bugs. If Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to look at him while they argued, John felt he was relieved of the social nicety of eye contact also. Which was nice, considering he couldn’t look at Sherlock without thinking about him strapped to the St. Andrew’s Cross. John wasn’t sure what you were supposed to do once you get someone up there, but he was having fun thinking of ideas.  
  
“I’m sorry, Fake Sherlock Holmes. Does your new suit come with an invisibility button or can’t you even be bothered to notice the cameras and security system?”  
  
“Of course I noticed the security. If you applied that part of your brain dedicated to insults and sarcasm to figuring out a way around the cameras, we could probably get this thing done,” John said calmly.  
  
Sherlock said nothing.  
  
John turned toward Sherlock and saw he was staring at him. He definitely looked on edge.

Suddenly, Sherlock disappeared into the bathroom before he could say anything else. John heard the water running.  
  
John sighed. He knew that he likely would still have to face the firing squad for letting Suzanne and Camellia trap them so easily, but he would try to enjoy the happy chemicals firing in his brain while he could.  
  
It had felt so good to have Camellia in his lap. He could hardly believe that he had gotten hard -- his body didn’t always respond as it used to before PTSD had taken hold of his life and changed everything.  
  
He had been overtaken with joy at being in the mouth of a beautiful woman, and admittedly had been brainless for a few minutes.  
  
He had still been buzzing when Sherlock had looked at him, so completely out of his depth -- how could he not come to his aid? It was a way to return the favour Sherlock had done him the day before.  
  
But of course John knew that wasn’t the only reason he had reached for Sherlock when Camellia encouraged it. He had loved it. Good god, he had loved being allowed to touch Sherlock like that and talk him through to orgasm. It might have been even more exciting than the actually blowjob, watching him move from skittish and fearful to shaking and panting. The way he moaned -- so quiet and rumbly, almost like he was in pain --  made John wish for his own Mind Palace. He’d pipe that noise through the sound system 24 hours a day.  
  
A little niggling worry pushed at the part of his brain that was still functioning, though. He listened to the patter of the water in the shower. Sherlock will certainly withdraw and be a complete prat. And John couldn’t really blame him. He supposed it was a clearly accepted rule that you don’t touch your flatmate while he gets sucked off by a woman with flaming hair and BDSM gear.  
  
On the other hand, he was sure it was a pretty small pool of flatmates who had killed for each other. This was just one more thing they had been through together that no one else would experience or understand.  
  
John hit a wall of exhaustion like a 10-tonne lorry and the constant cycle of questions in his head just stopped. It had been another huge and wonky day. He changed into his pajamas and climbed under the mounds of sheets and fluffy comforter.  
  
When he closed his eyes, he saw Sherlock’s face, eyes wide and mouth open and breath rasping. He felt his hands on his arm and heard that rumbling, gorgeous moan. And he couldn’t find it within himself to regret it. He was asleep within minutes.  
  
==============  
  
“John.”  
  
Sherlock’s face floated above him on the bed, eyelids heavy with desire. John smiled up at him.  
  
“Sherlock,” he said. “Oh thank god.“  
  
He felt Sherlock’s hands sliding down his arms. He grabbed his hands and twined his fingers with John’s, then pushed his arms up over his head. John let a low moan escape and rolled them both together, so he ended up straddling Sherlock.  
  
“It’s my turn,” John breathed. “I want to make you come. And I want your eyes on me like before.”  
  
Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered and he repeated his name: “John. John.”  
  
John ground his hips down into Sherlock and kissed him slowly and deeply, rocking into him again and again. John felt strangely detached, though. He couldn’t get enough. It wasn’t enough pressure. He wanted more.  
  
He moaned into Sherlock’s mouth.  
  
“More. God. I’m going to tie you up, spread-eagle. I’ve thought of little else since seeing the St. Andrew’s Cross.”  
  
Sherlock said his name again. This time, though, the name carried something fearful with it. It made John all the more frantic and he rutted hard enough to make Sherlock’s eyes roll into the back of his head.  
  
“I can’t wait any more.”  
  
Sherlock pulled back.  
  
“John, no.”  
  
“Yes, Sherlock,” he growled. “It drove me crazy to watch that woman suck you off. I need you and I’m fucking taking it.”  
  
Sherlock tried to move out from under John and John fought to keep him in place. Sherlock’s face twisted into terror and his voice got louder until he was practically screaming.  
  
“John! No, John!”  
  
John jerked awake in the dark hotel room. Oh, jesus. He tried to slow his breathing. What kind of creepy bastard has a dream about forcing himself on his flatmate? A shiver rippled through him.  
  
He looked guiltily over at the next bed. Light coming in through the window showed Sherlock was asleep.  
  
“John!”  
  
John sat up. The yelling -- it really had been Sherlock calling his name. Sherlock was having a nightmare.  
  
“Sherlock, wake up,” John said softly. “You’re having a dream.”  
  
 _“John -- no John, no!”_  
  
John flung back the bedclothes and crossed to Sherlock’s bed.  
  
“Wake up,” he said again. “Time to wake up, Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes moved rapidly back and forth under his eyelids. His hands were clenched but he didn’t move. The edge of the bed dipped as John sat on it. He softly laid a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and shook.  
  
Sherlock sprang awake and pushed John’s hand off him, scuttling backwards.  
  
John leapt up, and put his hands up in a surrendering motion, “It’s OK, it’s OK,” he said, but Sherlock’s eyes weren’t focused on him and he fell over the other side of the bed with a thump.  
  
Shit.  
  
He hurried around the bed and kneeled down. Sherlock sat up and reached for him.  
  
“John,” he said in relief. He clenched his hand in John’s T-shirt.  
  
“It’s OK. I’m sorry I scared you,” John said. He put his hand over Sherlock’s. John’s thin pyjama bottoms did nothing to hide his erection, but John didn’t have time to worry about it.  
  
Sherlock pulled him by the shirt and John moved in closer as Sherlock wrapped his arms around him and pressed his head into John’s chest. John was disarmed. Sherlock was trembling, so John hugged him and rocked lightly. He leaned his cheek on the top of Sherlock’s head.  
  
He tried to think what he would want someone to say after one of his nightmares, but nothing came to mind. So he just held on as tightly as he could.  
  
Of course it couldn’t last. He felt Sherlock stiffen in his arms and he pulled away and jerkily got to his feet, leaving John kneeling on the floor without a word. He grabbed the clothes he had had on the day before and shut himself into the bathroom.  
  
“Sherlock?”  
  
No response.  
  
“Sherlock, why don’t you go back to bed?” John said to the door. “It’s only 3 a.m. We’ll both try to get a few more hours of sleep.”  
  
The door burst open and Sherlock emerged, wild-eyed and fully dressed. He brushed past John, stuffed his feet into his shoes, grabbed his coat and made for the door.  
  
“I’m going out.”  
  
“What? Where?”  
  
“Don’t go to Simon’s until you hear from me,” he said, and the door shut behind him.  
  
“Jesus,” John breathed out, and sat down hard on the end of his bed. Fuck. He closed his eyes and put his forehead into his hands. He couldn’t think of anything to do and he was exhausted.  
  
Sherlock, as usual, left him with few options, so he climbed back into bed. He turned up the sound on his phone so a text alert would wake him and closed his eyes, hoping that the uneasy feeling would drain away and allow him some rest.  
  
\---------------------------------------  
  
There had been no message from Sherlock when he got up. He checked his phone every few minutes as he’d grabbed a bagel and orange juice from the hotel’s free breakfast. He started to feel excessively guilty. First the blowjob, and then he had pressed himself up against Sherlock last night with a full erection. No wonder the man had run. Thank god he’d never know about that horrible dream. John was disgusted with his subconscious.  
  
He had nothing to do in the room alone but kick himself for being such a sick bastard, but he sat there for as long as he could, staring blankly at the New York Times.  
  
At 8:30, he decided to put his time to better use, got into his running gear and headed to Washington Square Park.  
  
As he ran, his breath puffed out in the frigid air as he looped around under the bare trees and headed toward NYU. John thought about Sherlock’s strange nightmare. It sounded like Sherlock had been afraid of him.  
  
He’d just run under the arc in the center of the park when he saw a familiar figure in an elegant coat sitting on the concrete surrounding the fountain. Sherlock looked like he was trying to melt passersby with the power of his mind. John smiled. If anyone could shoot beams from his eyes, it would be this brilliant git. John pulled up and walked over and sat beside Sherlock.  
  
John looked at him, but Sherlock continued to study the park and everyone who went by. John sighed. What was this? Punishment? If he was mad about the Serpentine thing, why didn’t he just yell at him? Sherlock looked almost embarrassed. John pursed his lips.  
  
 _John Watson, you are such a dick._  
  
It was one thing to get carried away himself, but to drag in Sherlock, who almost certainly was gay and had no desire for either a woman to give him head or his flatmate to latch onto him while it was happening -- unforgivable.  
  
"Stop examining me," Sherlock sulked.  
  
"I wouldn't have to if you would talk to me."  
  
Nothing.  
  
“Clearly you had something to say because you tracked me down, when you could have just waited back at the hotel,” John pointed out.  
  
Sherlock watched two college students walk by in big puffy coats.  
  
“If you want to yell at me about last night, I’ll sit here and listen. I realise I crossed a line and I’m sorry,” John said, keeping his voice light.  
  
Sherlock cleared his throat, but still said nothing. John tried to think what would relieve Sherlock of the concern that was keeping him silent.  
  
“If you want to take back your offer to let me touch you, I completely understand.”  
  
John waited and licked his lips.  
  
“Do you know you do that when you’re uncomfortable?” Sherlock asked.  
  
“Do you know you deflect by telling me about myself?” John said, a sarcastic smile on his lips. “You think you know more about me than I do, don’t you?” John shook his head and put up both his hands. “Nevermind, I know the answer. Of course you do.”  
  
Sherlock’s stare was boring into him. “Don’t you know me?”  
  
John laughed. “No, not really.”  
  
Sherlock studied him. “And that bothers you.”  
  
“Yes, the fact that you don’t trust me bothers me. The fact that I can have no secrets from you bothers me. The imbalance of power bothers me.”  
  
 _Wait. How had this conversation gotten here? He had intended to apologise._  
  
“I do trust you. And I wasn’t aware that friends concern themselves with the balance of power in their relationship.”  
  
“Even if other people don’t, we’re not typical. Look at what we get up to.”  
  
“And you propose I rectify this how? I can’t help that I can see what I see when I look at you.”  
  
“If you wanted to put more weight on my side of the scale, you could tell me something about yourself that I don’t know.”  
  
Sherlock made an irritated sound.  
  
“John, you know me. You know everything important.”  
  
“No, I don’t. I know hardly anything about you, you close-lipped bastard.”  
  
“What do you want to know?”  
  
John smiled. He couldn’t believe Sherlock was going to play along.  
  
Where to start?  
  
“I’m fascinated by your parents. What kind of people created men like Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes?”  
  
Sherlock’s mouth became a tense line.  
  
“Ask me something else.”  
  
John raised an eyebrow. Must have struck a nerve. John considered him for a moment -- steer this back toward safer territory or indulge his curiosity?  
  
“Right,” he said. “Why do you think Irene sicced those women on us? Especially if she was telling the truth?”  
  
Sherlock was again looking anywhere but him.  
  
“Camille told me that you broke Irene’s heart,” John said. “Was it some twisted act of revenge against an ex-boyfriend?”  
  
“We were never together. It wasn’t like that with Irene,” Sherlock said with an edge to his voice.  
  
“How was it?”  
  
Sherlock sighed.  
  
“I was playing the game. She was … a bit more personally involved. I used it against her.”  
  
 _Doesn’t explain everything,_ John thought, _like why he keeps being drawn back toward her_.  
  
“And me?”  
  
“Irene persists in her belief that we are involved.”  
  
“And you got angry because I encouraged that misconception by touching you.”  
  
Sherlock shifted around on the bench.  
  
“I was angry that Irene is trying to manipulate me and I can’t figure out to what purpose.”  
  
Relief made him grin. He’s not angry with me. He’s angry at himself.  
  
“So you do still think she’s working with Simon and Caleb?”  
  
“No, which is what concerns me. I can’t figure out how all these pieces come together if she’s not working with them. And I allowed her to distract me.”  
  
Neither of them said anything for a while. John was starting to get very cold.  
  
“Let’s walk,” John said as he stood.  
  
“Are you done with the questions?”  
  
“No, not even close.”  
  
Sherlock sighed.  
  
“Last night. At Serpentine. If you hadn’t been with Irene, was that your first time with a woman?”  
  
“No,” Sherlock hissed. “I choose not to indulge any longer, but I’ve had sex.”  
  
“But you are gay.”  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
  
“If you wish to put me into a tiny little box with a neat label, I suppose that one works.”  
  
“OK, fine, your sexuality is a delicate and complex flower. So explain it to me.”  
  
Sherlock took a deep sigh.  
  
“I haven’t been with anyone in years. Sex is distracting and messy. The only person that I’ve had an actual relationship with was a man, yes. His name was Victor, and we were at Cambridge together.”  
  
“You were in love with him?”  
  
“Desperately.”  
  
John smiled at the thought of a young, lovestruck Sherlock Holmes.  
  
“And you haven’t been with anyone since then?”  
  
“I haven’t been in a relationship with anyone since Victor.”  
  
John waited a few seconds until they passed a family of tourists.  
  
“But you’ve had sex with other people?”  
  
“When it served my purposes,” Sherlock said icily.  
  
 _Jesus. He almost didn’t want to know._  
  
“Purposes?”  
  
“I am fully aware that I am what many people deem ‘attractive.’ I am willing to use all the tools at my disposal. Once or twice for a case. At my lowest point, a number of times for cocaine.”  Sherlock looked at him with a challenging glare. John tried to turn that little mental picture off. A roil of anger and frustration and jealousy made a ball of acid in his stomach.  
  
“So what, you can just turn it off? You haven’t really wanted anyone in 15 years?”  
  
“As I said, sex is messy. And Victor … well, if he had been there last night, he wouldn’t have helped me to come the way you did. In fact, he would have actively discouraged it.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“Victor enjoyed giving me pain and denying me pleasure. He enjoyed humiliating me whenever I expressed what I wanted. I rarely was allowed to orgasm.”  
  
“Jesus christ, Sherlock.”  
  
John guiltily looked around, but no one was close enough to overhear. Or at least no one who didn’t have earbuds in their ears and their eyes glued to their phones.  
  
“That’s --. And that -- you like that?”  
  
Sherlock blinked.  
  
“At the time I thought I did. I was fairly obsessed with him. There was a period where I would have done anything he said. He was, unfortunately, aware of my weaknesses and used them to get what he wanted.”  
  
“I’m sorry.”  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous. It happened. I learned from it.”  
  
John’s anger found an acceptable target.  
  
“You learned not to show your emotions to other people and not to consider what actually makes you happy -- what turns you on. No wonder you looked so scared last night. _Fuck_ , Sherlock.”  
  
The exclamation was loud enough to scare a couple of nearby pigeons into flight.  
  
“Then I just jumped in and bossed you around and -- damn it. I’m sorry.”  
  
Sherlock had stopped in the middle of the pavement and his lips twitched into something almost like a smile.  
  
“John, you are nothing like Victor. You always put me first, to your own detriment. Last night -- I never would have chosen that, but I don’t blame you. I should never have taken you there in the first place. I knew Irene was planning something.”  
  
John felt a bit light-headed. That was something that resembled praise from Sherlock. He needed to stop thinking about mutual blowjobs. Immediately.  
  
“Your nightmare.”  
  
Sherlock blinked.  
  
“That’s not a question.”  
  
“It sounded like I was pretty terrifying.” He was trying to make it lighthearted, but the image of Sherlock trembling on the floor filled his head.  
  
“What?”  
  
“You were telling me no,” John said. “Screaming no at me, actually. Was I attacking you?”  
  
Sherlock gave a hard shake of his head.  
  
“Someone was coming after you. I wasn’t able to get to you in time.”  
  
John’s heart sped up in sympathy.  
  
“Yeah. I have one where I’m frozen on the roof and watch you jump.”  
  
Sherlock looked at him with the same heartbreaking look he’d had on his face the night before, right before John had reached for him.  
  
 _He looks so young. I wish I could have known him before that Victor bloke got ahold of him. Things might have turned out differently._  
  
John was very conscious of how close they were, but also that Sherlock hadn’t said anything when he’d said could retract his offer to be his touchstone of a sort. He kept his hands to himself.  
  
“John, as much as I’m enjoying our little heart-to-heart, you are, as usual, asking all the wrong questions, and I fear there’s a time crunch, considering we are now not only gathering information about Simon, et al., but also about a serial killer.”  
  
John reeled back.  
  
“Since when?”  
  
“Since yesterday. When I was waiting outside the warehouse for you to finish up with Simon, I was on the phone with Molly. She made me realize that Simon had instructed you to operate in an industrial area, away from residential areas. The building he works out of is a pre-fabricated metal building. Sound familiar?”  
  
John was blank for a second, then it all slid into place.  
  
“Daryl Venure?”  
  
One side of Sherlock’s face twitched.  
  
“Very good.”  
  
“But he wasn’t -- stripped. He just was missing a few pieces of skin.”  
  
“That’s because they didn’t kill him to take his tissues -- they killed him because he was an employee who got out of control.”  
  
“Oh. Fuck. Did you talk to Lestrade?”  
  
“I did. He said the building two doors down from where Venure was found was rented to a Middlesex Stone and Paving Co., but he has been unable to reach the person listed as owner. He’s interviewing Jabez again today,” Sherlock said. “I’ve also spent some time looking into Caleb’s background. He was the one in London, not Simon.”  
  
That cheery attitude, John thought, it must be an act. In fact, he remembered Caleb’s face when he was watching Simon cut yesterday. It was the only time John could remember seeing him without a big grin.  
  
“And?”  
  
“He’s the type of person that is described as ‘charming,’ ‘lovely,’ ‘wouldn’t hurt a fly.’ However, according to the New Jersey Herald, one boy and two girls from Sussex High School went missing between 1990-1993. It’s high priority when three teenagers in a town of 2,000 people disappear within three years, but they’ve never been found. Caleb graduated in 1993 and went to  New York University, but dropped out after just a semester. That’s as far as I’ve gotten.”  
  
“But we can assume that he met Simon and recognized a soulmate and an ideal career path wrapped up in one mad bastard,” John said.  
  
“Well, I never assume, but it does seem likely.”  
  
“We should get to work.”  
  
“Yes. Lots to do,” Sherlock said. “Let’s go, John.”

  
  
\--------------------------------

  
Pulling up in front of the warehouse, John parked the car and cracked his knuckles. It felt like he was about to walk into a pit of vipers.  
  
“OK,” he said. “I’m going in. I’ll text you every 15 minutes or so to let you know I’ve still got of all my skin. What are you going to do?”  
  
“Make some calls about Caleb. Let me know if you find out where he lived after secondary school,” Sherlock said. He was looking at John with an expression he couldn’t parse. John realized he had been looking at him for a couple seconds longer than necessary.  
  
“Will do,” he said, and pushed himself out of the car and away from Sherlock’s distracting eyes.  
  
He rang the bell and the door opened immediately, taking him aback. He thought he would have a few more seconds to compose himself and sort through all the things he knew and the things he wasn’t supposed to know.  
  
“Sherlock!” Caleb said, jovially. “Come in!”  
  
Caleb looked over John’s shoulder at Sherlock sitting in the car.  
  
“John is grounded today,” John said, and Caleb chuckled.  
  
“Probably for the best,” he said, turning in the direction of the stairs. “It seems like he causes problems no matter where the two of you go, doesn’t he?” Caleb said with a sly smile.  
  
“Sorry?” John asked.  
  
 _Please don’t be talking about last night; please don’t have seen that._  
  
“He caused a little fuss at Serpentine last night. Camellia looked quite put out when she came back downstairs.”  
  
 _Shit._  
  
John made a quick decision.  
  
“I’m afraid he was in high form everywhere we went yesterday. I’m sorry we didn’t acknowledge you. I’m never sure of the etiquette of a situation like that.”  
  
“Yes, a bit awkward,” Caleb smiled as he climbed the metal stairs toward the crow’s nest, “when you see a coworker in a BDSM club. I once ran into my accountant, who was wearing nothing but a corset and sky-high Louboutins.”  
  
John laughed.  
  
“He gave me a nice little discount on my taxes that year,” Caleb said, laughing. “Even though he couldn’t meet my eyes for years.”  
  
John took that as a challenge and keep his eyes steadily on Caleb. You’ve nothing to be ashamed of, he told himself.  
  
He looked around.  
  
“Where’s Simon?”  
  
“He’s out for the morning, having his own more vanilla needs seen to,” Caleb said, in a stage whisper.  
  
John was pretty impressed at the way Caleb was making it seem like they had secrets together. He might be able to use that to his advantage. Although Irene said Caleb hadn’t behaved suspiciously in front of her employees, it was a place to start.  
  
“Some people just don’t know what they’re missing,” he grinned. “When you were in London, did you go to a club there?”  
  
Caleb kept his aren’t-I-naughty grin on his face, but shook his head.  
  
“No, I was kept pretty busy. No time for play, only work,” Caleb said. “Plus, the warehouse I rented was pretty far away from all the central London action.”  
  
“Oh. Too bad,” John said. “Where was that?”  
  
Caleb, made a vague motion with his hand.  
  
“Not really sure. Not a native, you know,” he said, then changed the subject. He rubbed his hands together. “Well, we should get started. Simon asked me to show you details about the European operation as it stands.”  
  
“That’s great,” John said, hiding his disappointment that he hadn’t been able draw Caleb out about his time in London. Still, there was time.

  
  
\-------------------------------------------------------  
  
  
Thirty seconds after John went into the warehouse, Sherlock took a big loop around the building, scouting the video cameras and noting the make and model.  
  
Unfortunately, most of the cameras had clear, unobstructed views, leaving Sherlock without cover and he backtracked to the car without getting all the way around the building.  
  
Sherlock knew he should be researching Caleb’s background, but instead, paced around the car, distracted by whatever was happening in the warehouse.  
  
John’s image popped up in front of him. First as he appeared last night, holding Sherlock on the floor where he had fallen, then again, bloody and missing chunks of flesh. Sherlock cursed his overactive imagination and looked at his phone again. His mind skittered away from providing the look on John’s face when they were walking to the hotel from the park.  
  
Five minutes until John was scheduled to check in. He made a few calls. First Lestrade, then a pointless conversation with a stupendously stupid desk sergeant at the New York University campus police, with a reassuring text from John arriving in between.  
  
Soon, however, he ran into the same problem -- he didn’t know what Caleb had done or where he had lived after leaving university. Sherlock irritatedly punched Irene’s number into the phone.  
  
“Hello, Mr Holmes,” Irene purred. “How was the rest of your night? Sleepless, I hope.”  
  
“Yes, it was, actually. I was _working_ ,” he put emphasis on the last word.  
  
“Oh dear lord,” Irene scolded. “Do I have to actually strip him and place him on your lap?”  
  
“Irene,” Sherlock spoke in his most imperious voice. “I’m sitting outside your mate’s office. Just thought you and I could have a chat about him.”  
  
Irene sighed.  
  
“Tell me what he did last night after we left,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Nothing,” Irene said, obviously fed up. “The usual. He had a drink and went into the Racer Room with Marguerite.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
“Did you talk to Marguerite after?”  
  
“Sherlock, nothing happened. It was a typical scene. She was fine.”  
  
“Irene. I know your first instinct is to reject instruction, so I’m going to put this as passively as I can,” Sherlock said, then affected a whiny little voice, “Please won’t you consider being more careful with Caleb?”  
  
Sherlock was encouraged by the silence. He continued to watch the blank front of the warehouse with a tense ball of nerves where his stomach was.  
  
“I believe Caleb is a serial killer.”  
  
“You believe or you know?”  
  
Sherlock tried to keep his irritation in check.  
  
“I’m telling you this as a courtesy, Irene. John is in there alone with him right now, and I don’t have time to convince you.”  
  
“Can you tell me at least something? What proof do you have?”  
  
“Why can’t you just trust me? We haven’t been on opposite sides for a long time.”  
  
“Sherlock Holmes is asking me think of him as a friend and to trust a gut instinct rather than empirical proof. I never thought I’d see the day. Falling in love sure has changed you,” Irene said, a smirk in her voice.  
  
“Irene,” Sherlock warned.  
  
“I can’t just go around banning clients with no reason,” Irene said flatly.  
  
“I will send you what I have, which is admittedly not much. I should have more by the end of the day.”  
  
His text message alert beeped.  
  
“I’ve got to go.”  
  
He hung up and read the message from John and did as instructed, first pausing to e-mail Irene what he had on the murders in Caleb’s hometown.  
  
________________  
From: JW  
Still in possession of my integumentary system.  
10:33 a.m., Jan. 19, 2012  
_________________  
  
  
________________  
From: JW  
I told Caleb you would send the address of our new office space and morgue contact to middlesexco@yahoo.com – JW  
10:43 a.m., Jan. 19, 2012  
_________________  
  
________________  
To: JW  
OK, done. Getting details? - SH  
10:48 a.m., Jan. 19, 2012  
_________________  
  
  
________________  
From: JW  
Working on it. Simon not here. - JW  
10:50 a.m., Jan. 19, 2012  
_________________  
  
  
________________  
From: JW  
Can you provide a distraction? Knock on the door? - JW  
10:51 a.m., Jan. 19, 2012  
________________  
  
  
The plan had been for John to download names of sources of body parts and the doctors who purchased the finished product. The plan was dependent on getting time alone with a computer, however. With Simon not in the building, Sherlock guessed this would be their best opportunity.  
  
________________  
To: JW  
How long do you need? - SH  
10:52 a.m., Jan. 19, 2012  
_________________  
  
  
________________  
From: JW  
10 minutes. - JW  
10:53 a.m., Jan. 19, 2012  
_________________  
  
  
Sherlock decided to just knock on the front door. He could ask to use the restroom, and if Caleb didn’t answer the door himself, he could make something of a little scene to draw him downstairs.  
  
Sherlock pounded on the door and looked guileless as he peered directly into the camera above.  
  
Close to 60 seconds elapsed before the door swung open to Caleb’s incessant grin.  
  
“Hello John,” Caleb said.  
  
“Sorry to interrupt,” Sherlock said. “I was hoping to use your facilities.”  
  
Caleb’s grin, already impossibly wide, grew.  
  
“Of course,” he said. “Our warehouse es su warehouse.”  
  
Sherlock faked a smile as Caleb guffawed at his own lame joke and ushered him inside.  
Now that Sherlock knew who he really was, he saw the seams of Caleb’s mask. His smile, no matter how big, never quite reached his eyes. His clothes also seemed a bit rumpled. One side of his collar was pointing up. Sherlock hoped John was able to download the necessary information. Sherlock didn’t like to think John was within striking distance of a serial killer who clearly was not putting his best foot forward.  
  
Might was well try to draw him out while I’m in here, Sherlock thought, following him toward the back of the building, past rows of coverall-clad workers, all giving him the side-eye.  
  
“I’ll be sorry to leave New York, it’s such a great city,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Yes it is,” Caleb replied.  
  
“Lived here long?” Sherlock asked casually.  
  
“Since college,” Caleb answered simply.  
  
“Which university?” Sherlock wanted to keep him talking. Anything he could learn would be helpful.  
  
“Actually, I didn’t really make it for long -- not really my scene, you know?” Caleb said, and Sherlock was again impressed with how he always managed to sidestep questions without seeming evasive.  
  
“I do know, I didn’t finish my degree, either. Couldn’t stand three years of inane instructors,” Sherlock hoped Caleb would open up if he felt there was common ground.  
  
“Oh, that wasn’t my problem. I was the stupid one -- just couldn’t hack it,” Caleb said with an abashed smirk.  
  
Sherlock cursed silently. He was much better at goading or badgering than subtle leading questions, but he couldn’t risk angering Caleb with John upstairs. He shot a glance at the glass-enclosed office, but didn’t see a sign of John.  
  
Caleb opened the bathroom door and gestured to Sherlock to enter. There didn’t seem to be a way to lock the door from the outside, so he walked past Caleb and went in. Caleb’s sleeve rode up and his wrist was exposed. Everything slowed down as three fresh red lines were revealed. Defensive marks. Caleb’s rumpled appearance was the result of a struggle.  
  
Sherlock attempted to spin, to drop into a defensive posture and block what he knew was coming, but Caleb wasn’t trying to punch or push -- he grabbed Sherlock firmly and he felt the sting of a needle in his neck.  
  
Then everything went black.  
  
  



	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock are captured by Caleb. Sherlock has to figure out a way to get them out of danger, even if it means hurting John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for torture and more cliffhangers.

“Serve God, love me and mend  
This is not the end  
Lived unbruised, we are friends  
And I'm sorry  
I'm sorry  
  
Sigh no more, no more  
One foot in sea and one on shore  
My heart was never pure  
And you know me  
You know me”  
\- “Sigh No More,” Mumford and Sons

Sherlock woke in a dim room, his arms pinned behind him and bound in plastic zip ties. He could feel another pair of arms pressed against his. He fought his way out of the chemical fog.  
  
“John?” he whispered.  
  
A low moan but no movement. John must still be under the influence of whatever Caleb had dosed them with. Sherlock took stock of his surroundings.  
  
It was very dark, but by the way sound echoed back at them, he deduced they hadn’t left the warehouse. But it was dark and empty. They sat, pinned to two straight-backed chairs along the back wall of the open space. His feet weren’t bound to the chair, though, so there was at least that. He shuffled them and heard a rustle -- a tarp was spread out under them. The room was shadowy and, besides the simple wooden slatted chair he sat in, he could only really see one metal table -- other dark shapes hovered beyond. The closest metal table held a bone saw and both of their coats. The rear door was a good 15 metres away. A light was on in the crow’s nest, but he couldn’t tell if anyone was in there.  
  
He felt John shifting against him.  
  
“Sh’lock?”  
  
“I’m here.”  
  
After a pause to allow John to take stock, he spoke up again.  
  
“Did he say anything to you?”  
  
“...mmm didn’t even see him coming.”  
  
“Please do focus. I need you at full capacity,” Sherlock said, sternly.  
  
Sherlock tried to think. He could feel John start to get nervous as the full impact of their situation hit him. He struggled against the plastic ties, which caused Sherlock’s chair to shake. Then he went limp.  
  
"Sherlock," John began, quietly. His breathing was louder than his voice. "I ..."  
  
"John. Stop. If you are about to make some misguided emotional pronouncement instead of figuring out how to remove us from this situation, I swear to all the deities that I will tear you from these ties with my bare hands just so I can take you back to the hotel room and string you up from the balcony." At that, Sherlock’s mind perversely provided him with an image of John tied up in their hotel room.  
  
A small sound, half laugh, half sob came from behind Sherlock's head, which added a new level to Sherlock’s guilt. He was actually shocked at himself and the disorder he’d allowed to set in. He couldn’t remember a time since he’d been sober that he’d botched something so spectacularly. John was going to pay the price, and yet he still couldn’t put a stop to it and focus.  
  
And Caleb was on to them the whole time -- which made Sherlock’s cheeks burn. He was ashamed of his own incompetence. He -- they -- would have been better off staying at home and letting Interpol fumble along. Instead, he’d been so consumed -- by thoughts of John, of doing things to John, of the look that John had given him that morning on a New York pavement -- that he had committed the most horrible of crimes. He had been boring and predictable -- perhaps fatally.  
  
They both turned their heads as they heard footsteps coming down the metal stairs. Sherlock bumped his head lightly against John’s.  
  
"If you get loose, just run, John. I'll be right behind you."  
  
“Fuck that.” John said as he struggled uselessly against their bindings.  
  
Sherlock twisted his wrist as far as it would go and threaded his fingers through John’s. The plastic cut into his wrist. John stopped struggling as the footsteps reached the bottom of the stairs and a light flicked on high overhead.  
  
Now Sherlock could see it was Caleb walking toward them. Still no sign of Simon. Caleb’s happy-go-lucky mask was gone and Sherlock saw the cold, calculating glare of a predator. He scanned the room, assuring himself everything was as it should be.  
  
Sherlock dropped John’s hand but not before Caleb noticed. He had a slight smile on his face as he crossed to the metal table and placed a small black packet on it.  
  
“I hope I gave you enough time to say your goodbyes,” he said, with a hint of humour in his voice.  
  
 _He said “I” and not “we.”_  
  
He unfolded the leather to reveal gleaming silver tools, each in an individual pocket – a scalpel, a set of needle-nose pliers, a small hand saw. He placed a reverent fingertip on the reflective surface of the broadest part of the saw.  
  
“Oh, shiny,” Sherlock says in a sing-songy tone. “You boys and your toys.”  
  
Caleb smiled broadly.  
  
“I’m glad you are in a good mood, Mr Holmes. It’s going to be a long afternoon for your boyfriend. Dr Watson is going to need your support to get through it.” His face drooped with false concern. “Oh, no, wait. Wrong choice of words. He’s not actually going to get through it.”  
  
Sherlock’s blood felt fizzy, as did his brain. He wondered how long Caleb and Simon had been on to them. John remained perfectly still.  
  
“Well, in that case, we should get started,” Sherlock said, amiably. “Where do you usually like to begin? Mr Venure, for instance, how did you start with him?"  
  
Scalpel in hand, Caleb walked around to stand in front of Sherlock, staying well away from both of them.  
  
“Why don’t you tell me?”  
  
“Let’s start with your state of mind at the time. You were there to set up the London branch, but you were having a bit of trouble finding the right people to work with. You were out of your element. You had raised a red flag somewhere, drawing the attention of Interpol. They didn’t know who they were looking for, but they knew what you were up to. Since you normally don’t have problems convincing people of anything and you don’t deal with frustration well, you were probably working yourself into a little strop. Venure worked for a funeral home. He didn’t pan out as a reliable employee, I suppose. The silly thing is, you dumped Venure just steps from the warehouse you were working out of. That mistake shows how flustered you were.”  
  
Caleb calmly walked around and stood in front of John.  
  
“Actually, I find it increases the thrill if I remain just on the outskirts of the sphere of suspicion. It’s shockingly easy to divert attention from myself. Only once or twice I have even been looked at seriously during an investigation. The police like a pretty smile as much as John here does,” Caleb said with a sly grin. “Please go on. I’m considering what I’m going to do to John, but I can do two things at once.”  
  
Caleb kept bringing up John. It was making it difficult for Sherlock to pretend like he wasn’t there. He was going to have to try something else.  
  
“Did Venure actually do anything to warrant his death or did you just need to release a little steam?”  
  
“It was a little of both,” Caleb said as if the topic held no interest to him. “He failed to be a prolific source for raw material, which is what he had promised. And I suppose you could say I had a bad day. So, yes, it was silly of me to make an emotional kill. I don’t normally make emotional decisions like that.”  
  
“Oh, I do believe that. A serial killer has to be systematic and efficient to go undetected for more than 20 years,” Sherlock said, not bothering to hide the admiration in his voice.  
  
“Yes, thank you. And then the world-famous detective Sherlock Holmes came sniffing around. I found your little act very amusing, but then it became clear you were investigating me, specifically, and not the operation, so I had to take action.”  
  
Caleb thought their appearance at Serpentine was some sort of bungled surveillance of him. Sherlock almost laughed. Maybe it had been a freak coincidence after all.  
  
“Lucky for me, you were kind enough to bring your investigation to my home base, so disposal won’t be the problem it was in London.”  
  
 _He’s speaking as if we are already dead,_ Sherlock thought. _Getting a bit ahead of ourselves, Caleb._  
  
“Just before disposing of us, I wonder if you can ease my curiosity. Is Simon not a partner in this venture as well?”  
  
“I can see why you’d think that. He does like to cut,” Caleb said, giving the scalpel a little twirl. “Simon knows about my activities, but he prefers not to have to deal with disposal issues. So no, he generally doesn’t participate.”  
  
“I wondered. Serial killers generally are lone creatures.” Sherlock struggled to keep his voice even as Caleb walked back around to John.  
  
“I take pride in my work. Simon is too … messy. I am very precise. For instance, when I cut into your boyfriend, I think I will start by taking off his eyelids so he will have to see everything.”  
  
"It’s a shame.” It came out awkwardly, all in a rush.  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“Yes. It’s a shame you don’t have a partner. I had started to think we would complement each together.”  
  
Caleb let out a bitter little laugh.  
  
“Oh, I see. You’re not really a detective who’d say anything right now to protect his boyfriend. You’re actually a psychopath.” Sherlock still couldn’t see Caleb, but his voice was heavy with sarcasm.  
  
“I admit you are very, very good. Smart. Excellent at presenting a persona that deflects suspicion. However, you do have weaknesses.”  
  
“OK. I’m listening.”  
  
“As you said, Simon is messy. As in volatile. That might make him sympathetic to your need for violence, but it also is a bit of a trigger for someone who was abused as a child.”  
  
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Caleb scoffed.  
  
“Oh, I do. I recognize a fellow traveller.”  
  
There was a short pause. Caleb walked around and stood in front of Sherlock. It’s working.  
  
“You aren’t going to convince me we are similar creatures, Sherlock.”  
  
“Similar, but not the same. I would never put myself under the thumb of a bully like Simon Frost. I had plenty of that, thank you. And if you work with me, you don’t have to, either.”  
  
“You’re a detective. When you see a wrong in the world, you turn it over to the police. When I see one, I excise it myself. Are you comfortable with a knife, Sherlock Holmes? Have you ever killed someone with your hands and watched the life drain from them?”  
  
“Yes. And I’d do it again,” he said without a pause.  
  
Caleb dipped his head and studied him for a long minute. He slowly nodded.  
  
“It’s possible I misjudged you.”  
  
“Yes, you did. For one thing, John and I are not a couple.”  
  
Caleb laughed and walked back around to stand in front of John.  
  
It was frustrating, not able to read his expression. He was glad he couldn’t see John, though.  
  
What he was about to say would be much more difficult.  
  
“It’s true that I am gay, although I find relationships and sex to be unnecessarily messy. John has never been in a relationship with a man and never had sex with a man. He has developed affection for me, leading people to draw their own conclusions,” he said, keeping his voice steady. “I am an electrical circuit that goes only in a circle. See, Caleb, you and I share much in common.”  
  
“I saw you at the club. You weren’t even close to coming until he touched you. You were holding hands when I walked in here. You’re sharing a hotel room.”  
  
“The woman at the club, while adept, was not my cup of tea. I simply requested John help me replace her with a fantasy male. We were attempting to act as if we weren’t aware you were watching us. It seemed the most efficient way to go about it,” Sherlock said, dismissively. “We have shared a flat for years. Sharing a hotel room is not that much different. It’s also safer. As for holding his hand, well, you actually might enjoy this. A few months ago, I realized that John’s PTSD symptoms could be controlled through human touch. He doesn’t respond to me saying ‘Calm down,’ but his tremor is reduced by a hand. It also works to keep him from yelling at me when he is angry over some slight. I often hurt his feelings because he hasn’t quite worked out that I have none.”  
  
“Oh, Sherlock. You should see his face. You might not care about him, but he certainly cares about you, and you are breaking his little heart right now,” Caleb said with glee. “I think I know a foolproof way of finding out your true feelings for him, too.”  
  
Sherlock mentally cursed. This was not only not working, it was backfiring.  
  
Caleb moved towards John with the scalpel raised. Sherlock spoke quickly.  
  
“I’m not saying I won’t be angry if you hurt him, Caleb. He is very useful to my work. I’m actually asking you not to,” he said in a low voice. “I feel like you and I could work together. Two sociopaths with our intellects? Think of what we could do. However, if you hurt him, I’ll be forced to kill you. It would be – disappointing.”  
  
Sherlock heard a chuckle as Caleb bent over in front of John and cut the buttons off his shirt. John jerked back, knocking his skull into Sherlock’s head.  
  
Sherlock’s head smarted, but it gave him an idea.  
  
John tensed as Caleb began carving. A muffled scream came from John – it filled the space inside Sherlock’s head with a red mist.  
  
“John,” Sherlock grasped at his wrist, but now they were both slippery with sweat. “Scottish judo.”  
  
Caleb shouted out, “Shut up,” but John headbutted him hard enough to pull Sherlock with him. Caleb reared up and John kicked out his legs, using an awkward version of the judo move Sherlock had taught him and knocking Caleb’s feet from under him.  
  
“Abrams!” Sherlock shouted. They both pushed up and over to Caleb, who lay dazed on the concrete and, moving as one, pounced on Caleb, caging him in the legs of the chairs.  
  
They resumed their seated positions, but now Caleb lay flat on his back under the legs of the chairs. John had one foot crushing Caleb’s hand. The other hand was caught by a sleeve under a chair leg. He was trapped.  
  
“Oh my god. I’d almost forgot about the Abrams case,” John panted, speaking loud enough to be heard over Caleb’s yelling. “Now what, genius?”  
  
Sherlock could see the scalpel, laying about a metre to the left. He kicked off his shoes and used his toe to pull off his sock.  
  
“Sherlock, what are you doing?”  
  
“Just keep an eye on Caleb.”  
  
He held onto the sock with his toes and used it to fish for the scalpel. It caught and snagged, but pulled free a few times before he was able to pull it close enough to grasp the handle with his toes and pull it alongside them. Bending his knee at an unnatural angle that he would no doubt feel later, he was able to push the blade onto Caleb’s back. It shifted a bit as Caleb bucked and yelled, but stayed pinned under the chair legs.  
  
He talked John through the next step in his plan. They budged their chairs as far apart as they would go, then Sherlock wiggled the legs of his out enough so he could tip back and lean back and down. Thankfully, he wasn’t pulling on John’s bad shoulder, but it wasn’t comfortable. Caleb seemed to be getting the worst of it, as he cried out when the bracing bars between the chair legs cut into his thighs.  
  
Finally, Sherlock was able to pinch the handle between his ring and middle fingers and curl it into his palm.  
  
He cut the plastic that held him to the chair first, then, with a little bit more freedom, was able to slide the blade between his wrist and the strip of plastic without covering them in blood, and he was free. Keeping his weight over Caleb, he cut John free, and handed him the scalpel.  
  
“Stay,” he instructed.  
  
He crossed to Caleb’s tool kit and pulled out a few more plastic strips. He bound Caleb before nodding to John, who was bent over Caleb, blade pressed under his right ear.  
  
That’s when Sherlock saw it. John’s blood running all down his chest and soaking his shirt that gaped open. He couldn’t see how extensive or deep the cut on his left pectoral muscle was. Sherlock hoped it was superficial. Enough for a bit of blood and pain, but Caleb had just been getting started.  
  
Sherlock quickly and efficiently hogtied him before pulling John to his feet.  
  
Sherlock grabbed their coats, turned to the door and John followed.  
  
Steps from the door, Sherlock turned back.  
  
“Did you see a first aid kit upstairs?” pointing at John’s wound.  
  
“Later,” John said, still moving toward the door with a scowl.  
  
“We might as well. We still have to wait for the police. You don’t even have buttons to close your shirt over it. Sit.”  
  
Sherlock took the stairs to the second floor two at a time and he immediately saw John’s gun on the desk. He rummaged in the desk before he remembered there was a mirror in the bathroom downstairs that probably held a few basic supplies.  
  
As he came back downstairs, he was pulled up short by Simon pointing a semiautomatic at John.  
  
“Sherlock,” Simon said. “Put down the gun on the step and join us.”  
  
Sherlock did as he was told. He took a seat on the stair next to John with as much dignity as he could.  
  
Simon kept the gun trained on them as he yelled out, “Caleb?”  
  
“In the back. They tied me up,” Caleb’s muffled voice answered.  
  
“Jesus fucking christ, Caleb.”  
  
He motioned at them with the gun. “Hands on your heads. Get up and slowly walk back there, single-file.”  
  
John went first and Sherlock ran through his options quickly. They had a very small window when Simon wouldn’t be fully focussed on them, but before he got Caleb untied.  
  
Caleb was laying on his side, facing the back door.  
  
“You,” Simon pointed the gun at Sherlock. “Get him out of those.”  
  
John moved toward the table.  
  
“I don’t even know what I’m doing,” Simon growled. “I should just kill all three of you right now. Make my life a whole fucking lot easier.”  
  
Sherlock saw the movement out of the corner of his eye and moved to get out of the line of fire, but John was faster.  
  
He grabbed Simon’s gun arm and attempted to twist it, but Simon moved out of John’s grasp. Sherlock leapt in front of him and threw a jab that caught him square in the nose, but received a crack to the temple with the butt of the gun. Sherlock’s vision was flooded with black, but he fought it as he drove the palm of his hand into Simon’s nose and brought his hand down, hard on his forearm. Simon lost control of his hand and the gun clattered on the floor as John drove a foot into the back of his knee. Sherlock grabbed his fingers as Simon fell to his knees. He twisted the fingers so they were pointed at the floor and applied pressure up.  
  
“Owowow,” Simon said. “Fucking christ, l will kill you, I promise you, you fucking fag.”  
  
Sherlock was sure John was close enough to hear the crunch as Sherlock pushed the fingers just a hair more. Sherlock felt the snap of at least two, possibly three metacarpals as Simon screamed. Simon wouldn’t be pulling any triggers anytime soon. Or trying on any hats. That made him smile.  
  
Simon whimpered and cradled his hand on the floor and John picked up the gun and gave him a good wallop, knocking him out.  
  
\-------------------------------  
  
Sherlock and John bent over Simon together -- Sherlock held Simon’s hands together as John wrapped them up and pulled the plastic tight.  
  
John didn’t look at him, keeping his eyes on his work. Sherlock knew he must be thinking about everything he’d said to Caleb, but Sherlock was very conscious they were not alone and said nothing. He didn’t know what to say anyway. Maybe it would be better if John believed all of it.  
  
John winced as the movement pulled at his wound. John’s open shirt gaped open and Sherlock got a good look at the damage. It was a crude and raw “SH.” Sherlock grabbed John, but John -- avoiding his eyes -- clenched his jaw and jerked away. He put the plastic ties in Sherlock’s hand.  
  
“Make yourself useful.”  
  
Sherlock thought if he touched Simon and Caleb again, he most likely would kill them. He dropped the ties and walked back to the staircase where they had left their coats. He fished out his phone and called 911.  
  
He watched from the bottom of the stairway as John linked Caleb and Simon’s hands together the way Caleb had linked them. When the dispatcher came on the line, Sherlock asked them to send the police to the scene of an attempted murder. He looked again at John and then asked them to send an ambulance, as well.  
John went into the bathroom and came out with a handful of wet paper towels pressed to the wound.  
  
“Let me help,” Sherlock said, leading a mute John toward the front door. He opened it to get some light and John leaned on the door jam as he handed over the pinkened towels. He barely winced as Sherlock wiped the blood away. It was still bleeding a bit.  
  
Sherlock wanted to make this right, but didn’t know how. But a part of him also wanted to touch his initials. Would it heal or was it deep enough that he would forever be branded? _Say something, dammit._ What came out was a bad joke.  
  
“If he was going to do that, I wish he’d put down my cell number, in case you ever got lost.”

Half of John’s mouth tilted up.  
  
Well, that was something, although he still was staring resolutely at a point just to the left of Sherlock’s left ear.  
  
“Tell me if I hurt you,” Sherlock said and covered his initials with the towels and applied pressure as he heard sirens coming toward them.  
  
“It’s fine,” John said, tight lipped.  
  
An ambulance turned down the street and Sherlock pressed John’s hand over the towel and stepped back into the warehouse, quickly looking over at Caleb and Simon as he retrieved Irene’s gun. He stashed it in the trunk of their rental car and then stepped out to the street to wave down the ambulance.  
  
Two men in navy blue kits jumped out and zeroed in on John’s bloody chest. They pulled him away and sat him down in the back of the truck’s bay as they peppered him with questions, took his pulse and slowly began prodding at the wound.  
  
Sherlock looked back into the warehouse. Caleb was wiggling a bit, but Simon’s body was still limp.  
  
“Sir?” a paramedic had appeared in front of him. “If you’ll come with me, I’ll take a look at that for you.”  
  
He gestured at his head. Sherlock put a finger to his temple and it came away wet. He had forgotten that Simon had struck him with the gun.  
  
“I’m fine.”  
  
“Please, sir. Head injuries are nothing to mess with. You can sit with your friend.”  
  
Sherlock heard more sirens approaching, so with one last glance back inside, he walked away from Simon and Caleb and climbed into the ambulance.  
  
John continued to not look at him as a paramedic took his blood pressure. Sherlock ensured there was a good six-inch gap between their thighs. He didn’t want to experience John pulling away from him right now.  
  
Everyone turned to watch the police cars pull in and officers pop out. Sherlock brushed aside the paramedic.  
  
“I need to speak with them.”  
  
The paramedic looked annoyed. John looked straight ahead. He needed to distract him. He handed John his mobile.  
  
“The last number I called. Ask for Sgt. Matthews. Don’t take no for an answer. Tell her we’ve captured a serial killer and you need any and all disappearances or murders of students in 1993-94.”  
  
John hesitated, but of course, took the phone as instructed. Sherlock jumped from the ambulance and headed straight for the police.  
  
“They are in the back of the building, both tied up,” he said.  
  
Sherlock waited as officers swept into the building, guns drawn. He was keeping one eye on the paramedic tending to John with a bit of gauze when one of the officers reappeared in the doorway.  
  
“Sir, could you be more specific about where these tied up people are?”  
  
“Oh, for god’s sake,” Sherlock breathed. “Are you an idiot? It’s not that big of a building.”  
  
“Sherlock,” John’s warning floated out of the truck.  
  
“Sir, we don’t find anyone in the building,” the officer said, obviously miffed.  
  
Sherlock pushed past the officer and ran into the warehouse.  
  
“Wait!” the officer hurried after him.  
  
As his eyes adjusted to the dark interior of the building, he saw immediately only white plastic ties on the floor where he had left Caleb and Simon just moments before.  
  
Surprised and concerned faces turned toward him and hands reflexively came up to their guns as he sprinted to the back door  
  
He hit the door with a loud “bang” and it opened hard enough to fly back and slam into the back wall. Sherlock scanned the empty open lot and cursed.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock thinks he knows where Caleb and Simon are, and that means Irene and Camellia are in danger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was very difficult to write and wouldn't exist without Hidden Lacuna. Thank you, dear.
> 
> See notes at the end of the chapter if you're concerned about triggers.

  
But who shall so forecast the years  
And find in loss a gain to match?  
Or reach a hand thro' time to catch  
The far-off interest of tears?  
Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drown'd,  
Let darkness keep her raven gloss:  
Ah, sweeter to be drunk with loss,  
To dance with death, to beat the ground,  
Than that the victor Hours should scorn  
The long result of love, and boast,  
'Behold the man that loved and lost,  
But all he was is overworn.'  
\-- “In Memoriam A.H.H.,” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson  
  
  
As the minutes dragged on, Sherlock grew more and more anxious and more and more certain that he knew where they could find Simon and Caleb.  
  
After hours of repetitive and inane questions about their connection to the human tissues operation, the NYPD finally had to allow them to leave the scene around 2 in the morning. There was nobody to arrest and nobody to bury (and the sergeant’s face got a lot less tense after a call to D.I. Lestrade). However, their rental car was blocked in by emergency vehicles, so Sherlock made a distracting fuss (about the way the evidence technicians were bagging the ligaments collected from one of the tissue baths) so that John could retrieve the gun, and they called a taxi.  
  
“We should tell the police where we think Caleb and Simon have gone,” John said once safely in the back of the cab.  
  
“You saw how they treated us, John. How likely are they to believe two out-of-towners who were suspects just hours ago? Besides, if we are wrong, Irene will hardly thank us for drawing police attention to her business.”  
  
Sherlock attempted to call both Irene and Ronald multiple times during the excruciatingly slow taxi ride. When he tried to encourage the driver to go faster, John shushed him, so Sherlock sat back and focussed on his phone.  
  
Just before turning onto the block the Serpentine was on, Sherlock had the cab driver pull over and let them out.  
  
Sherlock directed John toward the front while he indicated he was going to try to find a way in through the back garden. For a moment longer than necessary, Sherlock watched John jog down the street toward the darkened club.  
  
Sherlock reluctantly turned away and walked around the block until he found an alleyway filled with garbage cans and recycling bins.  
  
Sherlock recognized the distinctive copper-topped fence and, gripping the slats, slung himself over into the garden. He hung back for a few minutes, studying the building in the moonlight. The back of the lounge was one whole wall of windows, but the sheers were pulled, so he couldn’t see in. Only one window, high on the third floor, was lit. Sherlock tried the knob, but it wouldn’t turn. He wanted to burst through the glass, but held back, thinking that surprise would be their only advantage -- if Irene and Camellia were still alive -- so he picked the lock instead.  
  
Standing right inside the door, he listened but heard nothing, not even John scurrying about. Maybe he hadn’t been able to get in? The room was intensely dark -- so he pulled aside one of the curtains to let the moonlight in. Sherlock crept noiselessly to the front, expecting to find John waiting on the other side of a locked door, but found it unlocked and and empty porch.  
  
His gut twisted as he turned to head up the stairs and stumbled in the darkness over something large and solid. He reached out toward the dark mass and felt something warm and wet, but far too bulky to be any of the women or John. Ronald.  
  
 _Damn._  
  
He wanted to run up the stairs, but held himself back. John was likely already up there and Robert was still warm. If Caleb is alone, he has most likely bound Irene and Camellia on the second floor in the room with the St Andrew’s Cross. If Simon is along for the ride, Caleb wouldn’t take his time to do it the way he’d want. Simon wouldn’t want a show. They would probably be in their private quarters. The room with the light is likely their bedroom.  
  
Suddenly, Sherlock heard yelling and a hard thump. Sherlock berated himself for wasting time as he bolted up three flights of stairs.  
  
He ran straight at the closed door at the rear of the hall and burst in to find nothing like what he had predicted.  
  
Irene and Camellia were just steps into the room, both struggling with Caleb, a knife in his hand, and John and Simon were nowhere to be seen.  
  
When Camellia turned to look at Sherlock, Caleb used her distraction to his advantage and slashed violently, but inaccurately, catching her across the forehead. She cried out as blood poured down her face and into her eyes. Sherlock had taken only one step into the room when the sounds of another fight, this time from the second floor, reached him. He paused for just a second as the instinct to go to John’s aid overrode the impulse to put a stop the madman in front of him.  
  
In that second, Irene managed to get in a good kidney punch and Caleb twisted sideways out of her reach, swinging Camellia around.  
  
Caleb had Camellia by the throat and put her between himself and everyone else.  
  
“Come in, join the party, Sherlock. I knew you wouldn’t be able to stay away,” he said.  
  
Despite the knife and the fact that she was half blind with her eyes full of blood, Camellia fought Caleb like a wildcat. Sherlock wanted to tell her to be still, damn it, but he had one ear trained on what was going on downstairs and he was trying to map out Caleb’s escape route. He either had to go through both Sherlock and Irene to get to the door or jump out the window down three stories.  
  
Sherlock opened his mouth to point out to Caleb that there was no way out when a gun went off downstairs.  
  
Caleb’s eyes met Sherlock’s and he didn’t have time to hide the fear in his eyes.  
  
“Shall we go see who’s still standing?” Caleb smirked. “Let’s all go, shall we?” Caleb half-dragged Camellia by the throat toward the hallway, but Sherlock put himself in his path. Irene started to circle around, looking like she were going to claw Caleb’s eyes out, but he pressed the knife into Camellia’s neck, drawing a thin red line, and Irene froze.  
  
“I’d rather stay here if it’s all the same to you,” Sherlock said. He couldn’t let Caleb out of this room. Sherlock and Irene still had the advantage, but only for a few more seconds. Sherlock didn’t want to think about John being shot, but he had to account for the fact that Simon might be coming up those stairs behind him within seconds.  
  
“I’m afraid I don’t really need you to come along, Sherlock, but Camellia is coming, no matter what.”  
  
Sherlock heard footsteps on the stairs. He smiled at Caleb.  
  
“The benefit of living in a flat with stairs, Caleb. I’d know John’s step anywhere.”  
  
\---------------------------  
  
John was surprised to find the front door unlocked, and saddened to stumble across the body of the guard at the foot of the stairs, but he didn’t let it slow him down. He drew the gun and moved quickly and silently, not knowing how long Simon and Caleb had been in the house. On the first floor, he paused but heard nothing and quickly moved on.  
  
On the second, he heard a slight scuffle of feet in a room at the end of the hall. His heart thudded against his chest as he moved toward the door; the metal plate beside it read “Sidewinder” and the image of the layout popped into his head, including the St Andrew’s Cross and paddling bar. The fact that he had never been able to think of this room without picturing a naked Sherlock also was a distinct problem and he pushed it aside. He had his hand on the knob, about to twist when it jerked from his grip and the door flew open to reveal Simon, seemingly just as stunned as John was. They both recovered and brought their guns up in sync.  
  
“A stand-off,” Simon said with a maniacal gleam. “Which one of us is just crazy enough to pull the trigger when he has a gun in his face, I wonder?”  
  
“I think if this week has shown anything, it’s that you really shouldn’t assume anything about me, Simon.” John wanted nothing more than to shoot this bastard in the face. He tried to get a grip on his anger. He took notice that Simon had blood in his hair, was cradling his hand with the broken fingers and holding the gun in his non-dominant hand; but would it give him an advantage?  
  
“And I’m completely over playing games with you,” Simon growled. “You’re not even the smart one, isn’t that right? Just the little minion.”  
  
John smiled his most guileless smile. Minion was better than lap dog, after all.  
  
“I’m John Watson. Nice to meet you. Where’s Caleb?”  
  
“We split up -- searching different floors to make sure we rounded up any strays,” Simon said. “Where’s Sherlock?”  
  
“Same.” John took a step into the room.  
  
Simon took a step back. “Don’t get any ideas, Johnny,” he tilted his head at the equipment in the room. “Caleb told me all about you and Sherlock and I’m not like him. I don’t play your little queer games.”  
  
John turned on the light and shut the door, bringing the collection of whips, paddles and floggers on the walls into stark relief.  
  
“Oh, come on, Simon. Don’t you like me?” John said with a smirk. He was hoping that Simon’s homophobia, combined with a severe underestimation of John’s abilities, would be Simon’s fatal flaw.  
  
Fear briefly touched Simon’s eyes, but soon he had his cocky arrogance back in place.  
  
“John, I assure you, you would not like it if I got you chained to one of these things,” Simon said, his voice dropping low and dangerous. “I’d make you squeal.”  
  
They continued to shift further into the room, John taking one small step and Simon responding. John hoped Simon didn’t realize how close they were getting to the St Andrew’s Cross.  
  
John stepped forward again, shuffling slightly to the side, hoping to herd Simon in an angle so his elbow would bump against the cross. Since they were moving at the velocity of snails, John could only pray it would cause his hand to move just enough so that it wasn’t pointed directly at his head.  
  
“How sweet,” John said. “I’m afraid I’m not interested; sorry. What I am interested in, though, how you and Caleb got loose.”  
  
Simon grinned.  
  
 _That’s right,_ John thought. _Just a little bit more._  
  
“You idiots didn’t search us and you didn’t tie my feet. I had a knife in my boot; four cuts and we were free. I thought --” Caleb backed into the cross, shifting his aim just slightly and John attacked. He struck Simon’s gun with his own, knocking it to the side, but Simon kept a hold of it. John grabbed his hand, forced it back and he smashed it against the cross a couple of times before the gun clattered to the ground. Then he simply kicked it away and pointed his own gun at Simon.  
  
“I’m so going to enjoy this. Lock yourself up,” John said.  
  
Simon’s arrogant expression was long gone, but in its place was a blankness that was much more frightening.  
  
Simon reached back and wrapped the leather bindings around his good wrist, awkwardly using two unbroken fingers to buckle it into place.  
  
“I’m afraid you will have to do the rest,” Simon said.  
  
Just then, he heard someone running past them up the stairs and a scuffle in the room above. John gripped his gun and surveyed his options. He didn’t want to step into the reach of this madman, even with one hand bound and one hand injured, but he also didn’t want to leave Simon again without being absolutely sure that he was secured.  
  
“Put your wrist against the board,” John instructed. He kept the gun trained on Simon as he stepped in close and used his free hand to pin Simon against the cross. He tried not to think about how his first time locking someone to a St Andrew’s Cross was with this maniac rather than the maniac he wished it was.  
  
Leaning all his weight onto Simon, he moved to pocket the gun, but Simon made a grab for it and managed to swing up a knee. John dodged just enough so that it struck him in the thigh rather than his balls, but it was a hard strike and pain flared. John knew this was Simon’s last chance, but it was only a small one -- his fingers were broken, after all, and that’s what John went for, bending and squeezing until pain warped Simon’s face and he cried out and dropped his hold. John immediately slammed Simon’s hand against the wood and it felt good to make Simon cry out in pain, his heart hammering in a way that made him feel alive rather than panicked and unable to breathe.  
  
“You fucking bastard. I’ll cut you. I’ll gut you and skin you and sell the pieces,” Simon struggled and spit. John just looked at him and calmly pressed the gun to his temple.  
  
“That’s all over, Simon.” John couldn’t help but think about Venue and the man Simon had cut into in front of them. Not to mention the thousands of bodies he’d violated.  
  
“Fuck you,” Simon spat. “This isn’t over. You’re nothing and your faggy little boyfriend is nothing. I’m going to make you watch as I harvest his organs while he’s still alive.”  
  
Every protective instinct in his body rose up.  
  
“Shut up,” John dropped his gun hand to grind his forearm into Simon’s throat.  
  
“As long as I live, you should know that I’ll be watching and waiting. I will not stop until you’re both dead,” Simon gasped. With one last surge of strength, he pushed hard into the wound on John’s chest. Simon used their momentum, swinging them around by the chain at his wrist until John’s back hit the wall with a thud. Simon fumbled for the gun with his injured hand and John yanked at it hard; it suddenly jerked in his hand and Simon’s throat exploded, blood spraying from the left side.  
  
Simon’s body fell and dangled from the bound wrist. John stumbled in surprise and slid down the wall as the gun hit the ground. He sat on his heels, taking in the scene. His throat tightened as he felt fresh blood on his chest. He was suddenly cold, but he fought off the shock -- he had no time.  
  
His ears were still ringing as he ran up the stairs.  
  
\---------------------------  
  
“The benefit of living in a flat with stairs, Caleb. I’d know John’s step anywhere.”  
  
Caleb’s face went hard and Sherlock realized his mistake -- never corner a wild animal -- just as Caleb flicked his wrist.  
  
Irene screamed out “No!” and launched herself at Caleb. Blood spray hit Irene -- her nightgown was instantly soaked and she caught Camellia before she hit the floor. Camellia’s eyes were huge with fear and she held one hand around her throat, blood flowed freely between her fingers, as she grasped Irene’s nightgown tightly in her other fist.  
  
Caleb rushed at Sherlock and knocked him backward; he stumbled back into the hall and thudded hard into John. There was no way to roll in the tight hallway, and Sherlock fell on top of John. Caleb still had to jump over them to get to the staircase, however, and somehow John managed to reach out an arm and snag Caleb’s shoe. Caleb pitched forward and dropped the knife as he caught himself on the bannister. Sherlock watched as Caleb slid down a few stairs, now wearing only one shoe, one hand drenched in red.  
  
John pushed Sherlock off of him and bolted after Caleb. Sherlock was right behind him until he heard Irene, desperation in her voice, call to him.  
  
“Sherlock, please!”  
  
One look at Camellia told Sherlock there was nothing that could be done, but Irene was wrapping what looked to be a pink cardigan around her neck, trying to stop the blood from pumping. The pulse of blood was already slowing. Her eyes were unfocused. She looked like a little girl rather than the fiery woman who’d cursed him in the office just days before.  
  
“Sherlock. Dear god, help me,” Irene’s voice was low with anger, but she choked on the last few words.  
  
Sherlock went to her and put a hand over the cardigan. Camellia was so tiny, he could wrap his hand halfway around her throat, even with the cardigan bunched up around it. Camellia was completely limp.  
  
Tears hit Camellia’s face and Irene hunched over the prone body protectively. Sherlock moved his hand from Camellia to Irene’s shoulder and she jerked away.  
  
“No.” She shook her head and Sherlock could only mirror the motion. He had no words that could combat the grief on her face.  
  
“No, Sherlock. I can’t do this without her.”  
  
Sherlock heard another gunshot at the same moment he became aware of the sound of sirens.  
  
“You will, Irene. I’m sorry. There’s no time to grieve right now. You have to get dressed.”  
  
He went to a dresser and grabbed a pair of jeans and a top without even registering it. He turned back to her; she hadn’t moved. He pulled her to her feet, hugged her briefly and pulled her soaked nightgown from her body. When he started to dress her, she roused herself enough to pull the jeans and top on herself.  
  
Sherlock got out his phone and dialled Mycroft.  
  
“Emergency extraction needed for Irene at the Serpentine,” he said, without waiting for a reaction from Mycroft. Mycroft may have much fewer resources in the States, but Sherlock was under no illusions that Mycroft didn’t know exactly where John and he had been spending their time lately, and with whom.  
  
 _John._  
  
  
\------------------------  
  
  
John pitched himself back down the stairs after Caleb. Caleb had a flight’s lead on him, but he stumbled over Robert and John gained on him in the lounge. He threw himself at Caleb only steps from the back door and they both slammed into an end table. They struggled to get the upper hand in a tangle of arms and legs and half-broken furniture.  
  
John started throwing punches wildly, thinking of all the things Sherlock had said to Caleb while John impotently sat with his hands bound to Sherlock’s. John felt something in Caleb’s cheekbone shatter and he smiled. Caleb managed to get an arm up and blocked a blow, hooked a leg and flipped them, and then Caleb scrambled off, grabbing a broken table leg on his way up.  
  
John rolled and pulled himself up where he snagged a bullwhip displayed on the wall. It was a black, four-foot braided leather whip with a dangling fringe at the end. He stood between Caleb and the back door and he tried cracking the whip in Caleb’s face, but missed by a wide margin and it didn’t even make a sound. Caleb made a derisive face, the effect of which was lessened by two black eyes that John knew were the result of headbutting him earlier.  
  
“You are a sad little man, trailing after that psychopath. You’re nothing but a worm to him.”  
  
“I’m the worm that killed Simon,” John said. “And I’m going to kill you, too.”  
  
He took aim again and this time, the whip gave a small “pop.”  
  
John was flooded with the power it inspired.  
  
“Then what? Go back to London and continue to live with the man who not eight hours ago looked me in the eye and told me he manipulated you and used you on a daily basis? You really are pathetic.”  
  
John gritted his teeth and cracked the whip again, driving Caleb back further into the room. He heard crying from upstairs. He hadn’t been able to see clearly into the bedroom, but he had seen a lot of blood and Caleb’s hand that held the table leg was drenched with it.  
  
John reared back to crack the whip, and this time, threw with his whole body, causing a loud crack that vibrated through his hand. A shocked Caleb touched his hand to his cheek and it came away with a small smear of red. Caleb recovered quickly and rushed him, driving them both back into the wall and forcing John to drop the whip. Caleb pressed the broken end of the table leg into John’s chest. John yelled as the pain flared just as it had when Caleb first cut into him; John cracked him across the nose with his elbow and tried to headbutt him again, but Caleb jerked out of reach.  
  
“Exactly what I’m talking about, worm. I learn from my mistakes. Why can’t you? He doesn’t care about you. Trust me. He’s not capable.”  
  
Another kind of pain flared up, but John steeled himself against it.  
  
 _All I have to do is keep him talking until he makes a mistake._  
  
Caleb reached down and pulled a small knife out of his boot.  
  
 _Or gets tired and cuts my throat._  
  
“I guess you know everything about us. How long did you know who we really were?”  
  
“From the start -- watching you two on the monitors waiting to meet Simon. He drew the conclusion that you two were together, but he’s a sucker for a nice suit and a military bearing and assumed you were in charge. I knew something was off, so I did a bit of research, although I didn’t tell Simon until after I saw you here. I was --” Caleb turned his head to the side to spit out a mouthful of blood and John felt a preternatural calm come over him. John threw a punch into Caleb’s ribs and Caleb let out an “oof.” The knife skittered along the wood floor, and disappeared under the sofa. They both fought for it, but Caleb kicked out hard at John’s knee, driving him down. By the time John got both feet under him, Caleb was at the glass door; he yanked it open and bolted.  
  
John ignored the pain from his knee and ran after Caleb, just in time to see one shoeless foot go over the fence. He cursed himself for not bringing the gun. He hauled himself to the top of the fence, looked right and left, but saw no sign of Caleb. A quick debate with himself -- chase Caleb alone through alleyways he did not know, or return to Sherlock to see if he was needed? He dropped back down into the garden and headed inside.  
  
\------------------------  
  
Sherlock turned back toward Irene, who was standing over Camellia.  
  
“Irene, I’m sorry. We need to go. What do you need?”  
  
“Just my phone.” Her voice sounded far away and she didn’t look away from Camellia as she gestured vaguely at her nightstand. She pulled the comforter from the bed, crouched down and gently spread it out over Camellia, like it would protect her from the cold, and closed her eyelids. She used one corner of the comforter and wiped drops of blood from her cheek and chin.  
  
Sherlock picked up the mobile, went to a closet and fished out a pair of shoes that didn’t have heels and thrust them at her.  
  
He turned toward the stairs. As he got to the top, John reached the bottom and Sherlock didn’t realize he had been holding his breath, but he must have done. He sucked in a huge breath as John rushed up towards him. He was slightly limping and there was fresh blood on his chest.  
  
John looked in at the bloody scene in the bedroom and back. His expression was full of pain and guilt. He doesn’t like Irene. He barely knows Camellia. He wasn’t even in the room when she died. And yet he feels guilty.  
  
John went to his knees beside Camellia, staying out of as much of the soaked carpet as he could, pulled back the comforter and lifted her wrist to take her pulse. Sherlock didn’t try to stop him. He would have to see for himself there was nothing to be done. It might help Irene leave more quickly if she saw the doctor couldn’t do anything; that is wasn’t just the heartless bastard Sherlock ignoring her dying wife.  
  
However, the sirens were getting closer.  
  
Sherlock used their remaining time by searching Irene’s closet, where he found a small violet overnight bag. He shoved a handful of clothes and shoes into it, and left many dresses hanging haphazardly or tossed on the floor.  
  
John was bent over, listening to Camellia’s chest. He sat up and sadly shook his head at Irene. She took in a huge, shaky breath. Her face was blank, but her tears had stopped.  
  
Sherlock crossed to the dresser and piled the underclothes into the bag, until he found what he was looking for. A small stack of papers and jewellery. Irene must have really figured she was settled and out of danger -- married and a business owner and the type of boring person who kept all their most valuable objects and paperwork with their knickers.  
  
He knocked all the rest of it around and pulled out a few drawers. It wasn’t nearly enough, but it would have to do.  
  
John caught his eye and nodded. He pulled Irene up and guided her toward the door. Sherlock followed them down the stairs.  
  
“Simon?” Sherlock asked John.  
  
“Dead. Irene’s gun is with him.”  
  
“Caleb?”  
  
“Gone. I’m sorry. He got away.”  
  
Sherlock paused, and John and Irene stopped, too. John turned to look at Sherlock.  
  
“Irene, we’ll need to wipe your hard drive of the video recordings that show John with a gun. I take it that it wasn’t legally acquired?”  
  
“No.”  
  
On the second floor, they walked past Simon’s body dangling from the St Andrew’s Cross on the way to Irene’s office. A shiver ran through Sherlock as he took in the scene. John would need to wash his hands thoroughly before the police got here. Irene brought up the correct screen and hit a few buttons.  
  
As they headed back down the stairs, no one looked into the Sidewinder room.  
  
“Irene,” Sherlock said, “just a warning. When we get to the bottom of the stairs, you will have to step over Ronald.” Sherlock kept his voice firm and matter-of-fact.  
  
When they reached the bottom of the steps, John stepped over the body and then held out a hand for Irene. Sherlock followed, and then bent down and pulled Ronald's phone from his pocket. He grabbed Irene’s coat and slipped it over her shoulders. John wrapped a protective arm around her and guided her out the back door.  
  
“This way.” Sherlock led them to the back door, through the garden, where Irene unlocked a gate.  
  
A car’s headlights came on in the alleyway and Sherlock led them to it. A man got out and walked around to open the passenger door for Irene.  
  
She balked at the strange face.  
  
“Sherlock.” Her voice was flat, but retained the steel core.  
  
“Irene, if we had time to discuss this, I happily would.”  
  
She looked at each of the men in turn. She looked so young and fresh-faced -- until Sherlock saw the headlights catch a glint of blood in her hair.  
  
“I’d rather take my chances alone,” she said, pulling out of John’s arms.  
  
Sherlock shot out an arm to block her exit.  
  
“Irene. You are about to be found in an house with three dead bodies, one of which is in a room filled to the brim with BDSM equipment. You get one moralistic copper or judge and you’re done for. Not to mention the months worth of news coverage,” John said. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to take your chances with --”  he looked at the man.  
  
“Michael Jones, ma’am,” the man supplied, unhelpfully. A dull and obvious fake.  
  
“We’ll meet you later,” John said firmly.  
  
Irene gave a slight nod and got in the car.  
  
“Don’t call either of us. We’ll know how to find you.” Sherlock handed her the bag and she nodded and shut the car door.  
  
Sherlock turned and went back toward the house.  
  
“Where are you going?” John hissed.  
  
“John, as much as I’d like to fade into the background, I’m afraid the NYPD already have us tied too closely to Simon, and now he’s lying dead in there. We’ll have to face the music.”  
  
“You’re just going to greet them at the door and say, ‘Hi officers, please come in and get those handcuffs warm because my friend John killed someone, but don’t worry because he was a bad guy.’”  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous, John. I wouldn’t throw you under the bus,” Sherlock said with a humourless smile. “I am going to throw Caleb under the bus.”  
  
  
\-----------------------  
  
Sherlock and John walked away from the Serpentine in the general direction of their hotel as the sky lightened.  
  
He had been surprised how cooperative the police had been. Apparently, they were starting to put together the whole story. They weren’t happy with the number of dead bodies, but a solicitor on the scene -- sent by Mycroft -- and a lot of fake deference from Sherlock went a long way.  
  
They were allowed to leave with instructions to return for more questioning tomorrow. Or today, he supposed. On their way out, Sherlock called Mycroft to find out where Irene had been stashed, and filled him in on what had taken place.  
  
“Also, John has been hurt,” Sherlock said, looking at John, who pointedly stared straight ahead.  
  
“How hurt?” Mycroft asked just as a cab pulled up.  
  
“I’m afraid we didn’t really have time to have it looked at properly by the paramedics. It’s going to require a little more attention, I think. Also, Caleb Ulises is at large. Also, not sure if other members of the organization might be feeling vengeful. Better put us in the same hotel as Irene.”  
  
“The hotel is close to the downtown NYPD office. You can go there after a few hours sleep and then come home tomorrow afternoon. I’ll text you the information.”  
  
Sherlock hung up. He had no intention of going back to England when there was a serial killer here to track down.  
  
“I don’t want to go to hospital,” John said, pulling Sherlock back to the here-and-now.  
  
“Your medical case will have enough to set you right, don’t you think? Mycroft will surely have our luggage sent over.”  
  
Silence reigned in the taxi. It was interrupted by a beep from Sherlock’s phone. When he opened it, he gave the new directions to the cabbie.  
  
Sherlock catalogued John’s injuries: chest cut, lump on the head, twisted knee and assorted cuts and abrasions. Not great, but well enough. The fact that he still refused to look in Sherlock’s direction indicated his emotional state was the bigger problem. He’s likely feeling guilty, upset and pissed off for any number of reasons. Most of them seated to his right.  
  
“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked. John just snorted.  
  
Sherlock sat with his hands fisted in his lap. Adrenaline was making him very thirsty and caused a buzzing feeling in his extremities. He wanted John to talk to him. He wanted John to yell at him. He wanted John to kiss him. It was taking all his self control not to pin him to that window he found so damned fascinating. But he was sure that would not help the situation right now. So, he did what he did best when it came to John. He said nothing.  
  
Sherlock spent the rest of ride trying not to allow himself to see the look on John’s face when Sherlock had revealed his past with Victor, or to picture what John must have looked like at the moment Caleb said that Sherlock was breaking John’s heart. Because he knew with stunning clarity that Caleb had been right.  
  
Tonight was a turning point. Sherlock knew the next thing he said would take them off of this slippery slope on which they had found themselves these last few days. Whether that meant the end of their partnership or the beginning of something else – Sherlock feared both, but knew which option he should pick. Removing the option of a relationship and sex was the best – the only – way to go.  
  
He felt himself being taken over by a black hopelessness as he accepted the decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for violence, homophobic language, and an awful lot of blood and minor character deaths.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock retreat to the hotel after Caleb escapes again, where an emotionally and physically exhausted John can't hold back anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are at lucky number 13, in which John and Sherlock finally, finally take off their pants. I know. I'm shocked, too. This chapter is "to be continued" in the final chapter, but I am posting it immediately, because you guys have waited long enough.
> 
> "Thank you" is not nearly enough for my incredibly insightful beta, [HiddenLacuna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenLacuna), who helped every step of the way.
> 
> I wrote this chapter months ago, and it has morphed a million times since then and I have lost all perspective on it, so I appreciate any comments and constructive criticism.

“You're what keeps me believing the world's not gone dead  
Strength in my bones, put the words in my head  
When they pour out to paper, it's all for you  
'Cause that's what you do  
That's what you do.  
  
I want to know your fear,  
From your feet to the back of your ears  
When they raise the landing gear,  
Will your heart stay here?  
If you could forgive me, for being so brash  
Well you, you could hit me or whip me  
Oh I'd savor each lash  
  
No more fighting this is only a waste of our time  
Oh 'cause soon we'll be leaving  
Will this strength still be mine?  
  
I'll look out for you,  
'Til I die, 'til I rot  
Oh I'll remember you,  
'Til I die, 'til I rot”  
\--”I Want to Know Your Plans,” Say Anything  
  
John and Sherlock got out of the cab at the downtown hotel. Mycroft hadn’t punished them for using his credit card -- this place was just as luxurious as the one they’d checked themselves into.  
  
They walked into the spacious lobby and John sank into a huge white armchair while Sherlock marched up to reception.   
  
John watched as the clerk glanced at the dried trail of blood that ran down from Sherlock’s temple, but she was well trained to mind her own business, and cheerfully and quietly checked them in.   
  
Sherlock told the desk attendant that their luggage should be there soon and to send it up right away. John did not look at him or move as Sherlock walked back to him.  
  
 _I’ll just sit here until he goes away. Until everyone goes away. Until New York goes away._  
  
Sherlock touched his shoulder. John jerked like he had been touched by an electric wire. Sherlock held his hands up in front of him in surrender.  
  
“I won’t touch you, John. Come to the room now.”  
  
John gave him a knowing look.  
  
“One room.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“For _safety_.”  
  
Sherlock lowered his voice and pinned him with his eyes, “Do you want to talk about this here?”  
  
John gritted his teeth, but stood up and got in the lift.  
  
John couldn’t stop thinking about Sherlock’s words and Sherlock’s actions. They contradicted each other. Of course, if he really was a sociopath, they would. He would be a man built of lies.  
  
No. John was sure he wasn’t a sociopath. He was, however, sure that he was a manipulative, selfish bastard. He could have been simply using his little trick when he grabbed his hand as Caleb walked in, instead of what it felt like at the time -- a connection. An anchor. A security system.  
  
 _Damn_ him. Damn him for saying those things to Caleb, who had thrown them all back in John’s face. Damn him for that shocked and desperate – and aroused? – look he had on his face when he had seen the SH carved into his chest. Damn him for the pained and gentle expression he had when he wiped the blood away and … _Fuck_. Just damn him.  
  
John sighed as they exited the lift. He wasn’t going to fucking deal with this. He was exhausted and his chest was throbbing and he’d killed a man tonight and there was still a serial killer after them. And Camellia. Poor Camellia. He wasn’t going to fight with THIS madman, too; not tonight.   
  
Sherlock opened the door and went in. John followed. As soon as the door swung shut, his leg gave up on him and he slid to the floor. He decided it was fine. There was just one small light over the desk in the middle of the room – it was quiet and dim and he liked it on the floor. He closed his eyes and leaned against the wall.  
  
He opened his eyes when he heard Sherlock sit down against the wall opposite in the narrow entryway.  
  
“Thank you for saving my life twice today, but I hate you very much right now,” John said. “I hate that I have an asshole’s initials carved into me – for god knows how long – and I don’t want to hear about what an idiot I am for letting Caleb get away and I certainly don’t want to hear your stupid fucking smug deductions about me, so please bugger the fuck off.”  
  
Sherlock looked directly at him, his long legs splayed out in front of him like a doll.  
  
“If I wanted to say something that was not a smart-arse comment or a fucking smug deduction, would you allow that?”  
  
 _Fuck you, Sherlock. You’re not even bothering to look abashed._ This was the worst of all the Sherlock expressions. The one that hurt to look at. The one that was like staring into the sun.

He exhaled loudly.  
  
“Quickly, then.”  
  
“I am sorry you were hurt. I am sorry I put you in that position. I am sorry every time I put you in that position,” Sherlock took in a big breath and let it out slowly. “I am not sorry for whatever I said in there that upset you, because I was trying to get Caleb to make a mistake. I’m sorry it didn’t work. I would live for the rest of my life with JW scrawled tip to toes if it meant you hadn’t had to go through that.”  
  
John felt so tense and heavy and hot, he wasn’t sure his bones weren’t made of lead and his stomach wasn’t filled with cement. Of anything Sherlock could have said, John wasn’t expecting an apology. Many apologies. Like Sherlock was making up for all the times he’d never said the word “sorry” to him. John stared at the blood that ran in a line from Sherlock’s temple, down the beautiful line of his face, following the sharp curve of his jaw and down to the tip of his chin. There was a small red star on the front of his shirt.  
  
With a reserve of energy he didn’t know he still had, he was suddenly straddling Sherlock. Feeling like he was throwing down the gauntlet, he grabbed a fistful of Sherlock's hair, and with a sharp jerk, tilted his head and leaned into Sherlock’s right side. He touched his tongue to the trail of blood, and followed it down, beside his ear, along that movie-star jawline, and stopped at the tip of his chin. Not pulling back at all, he slightly raised his head so their lips were millimetres apart.  
  
Digging his fingers into Sherlock’s coat, he made fists and held on as if Sherlock was going to try to shake him loose. John was so close, he couldn’t see Sherlock’s expression. His breath was hot and heavy on John’s mouth. John pressed his mouth onto Sherlock’s and Sherlock’s tongue responded, giving pressure, and making swipes to his lips as he pulled back slightly and tilted his head to the other side – perfect pressure, release, tease and explore.  
  
 _Oh god. More. Perfect. More._  
  
Sherlock tentatively shifted his hips and dropped his head to John’s shoulder, which allowed John to lick lightly from shoulder to earlobe. He sucked the earlobe into his mouth and grazed it with his teeth, and Sherlock made a noise that could only encourage him, so he dropped back down to where the neck became shoulder and bit down – hard. Sherlock groaned and pushed his hips up, up into John.  
  
“ _Oh fuck yes,_ ” John murmured into Sherlock’s collarbone.  
  
Just then, there was a knock.  
  
John sat up and wondered what the _hell_ was with his luck. He couldn’t interpret Sherlock’s expression. They looked at each other for a second before John stood up and peered through the peephole at a porter with their bags.  
  
He put his hand out, pulled Sherlock up and opened the door, accepting the bags without a word and handing him a bill. He couldn’t care less what it was.  
  
Sherlock took his bag and John just dumped his and watched Sherlock silently. Would he use this opening to put a stop to this? Now that John had gotten a taste – dear god, he wanted more.  
  
Sherlock placed his bag on the second bed, and went through the contents until he was satisfied everything was there.  
  
Sherlock discarded his coat, turned toward him and John’s blood fizzed. John took a few steps forward and pulled him down, kissing him hard and running a thumb over one nipple, allowing the nail to scrape painfully over the nub.  
  
Sherlock immediately pulled away and John braced to be told “no.”  
  
“We need to put a proper dressing on that,” Sherlock softly touched his chest, just south of the actual letters.  
  
“Later,” John said.  
  
Sherlock smiled and leaned down, placing a light kiss on his lips.  
  
“Would you let me get away with that?”  
  
John let out a short laugh.  
  
“No,” he echoed.  
  
“Here we go,” Sherlock said, pulling John back toward the bathroom by one arm, snagging John’s mini medical kit out of his bag on the way.  
  
Sherlock pulled off his suit jacket and dropped it on the floor. John stripped off his coat and ruined shirt under the glare of the bright lights, reflected by the mirror that covered all of one wall. He lifted himself up onto the marble vanity and sat beside the sink.  
  
There it was again -- a quick uptick in Sherlock’s breathing and a dazed look before he quickly squashed it. Sherlock was turned on by his own initials carved into John’s chest. John didn’t know how that made him feel -- the idea of Sherlock turned on certainly gave him an immediate rush, but he didn’t want to be disfigured to do it. Sherlock applied antibiotic ointment and a large square bandage and said, “You’ve got a nice goose egg, too,” flicking his eyes up to John’s forehead.  
  
“I’ll take some Paracetamol,” John said. “How’s your head?”  
  
“Reeling,” Sherlock said, meeting his eyes and giving a flash of that patented Holmes half-smile. John couldn’t stop looking at his mouth and he was very aware of his breathing. Despite how deeply he was breathing, he seemed to not be able to get enough oxygen and felt light-headed.  
  
John cleaned the small cut on Sherlock’s temple and wiped off the blood that ran down his face with an alcohol swab.  
  
“Here, give me that,” John took the ointment and smeared a bit on Sherlock’s temple with his pinky. He stuck a small plaster over the spot, trying to avoid his hair as best as he could.  
His eyes. There were galaxies in there – swirls of blue and green and brown and flecks of gold.  
  
 _This is a huge mistake and thank god it’s finally happening._  
  
Sherlock finished smoothing the tape over his bandage. John took his hand from his chest and turned it over, kissing his narrow wrist. He could feel the pulse through his lips. He had to ensure this was what they both wanted. He flashed back to Sherlock’s wide-eyed expression when he covered his mouth while they waited to meet Simon; his clear arousal at the carving on his chest, and a million little moments that John had stupidly dismissed. He thought it all added up to Sherlock and he wanting the same thing, but he couldn’t be sure he could trust his own judgement right now.   
  
“This is it,” John said. “Say yes.”  
  
“What to?” Sherlock asked.  
  
“Specifically? You are saying yes to being wholly with me and to me being in charge until we get out of bed in the morning. And you are saying yes to a few things that involve pain. Some things people might suggest are a bit not good.”  
  
Sherlock stared at him with wide eyes and shallow breath.  
  
“You need this.”  
  
John nodded.  
  
“You always need it?” Sherlock asked.  
  
“No. I don’t really have that much experience with it, actually. You saw me come with Camellia. I didn’t hurt her or dominate her.”  
  
“But you wanted to.”  
  
“God yes.”  
  
“And you need the control and the pain with me.”  
  
“Control? Without question. Pain? Would be a bonus. I don’t know if you even know what you like, so we can just -- “  
  
“No. I mean -- I mean, yes,” Sherlock stumbled over his words.  
  
John drew himself up straighter on the countertop.  
  
“Say it,” John said, sternly.  
  
“Yes. I want you. I want to submit to you. While we’re in bed,” he emphasized that bit. “Anything you want.”  
  
John exhaled -- the words meant John was no longer in danger of simply pushing Sherlock to the floor and rutting against him. He began unbuttoning his shirt. Sherlock drew in a long shaky breath, but remained perfectly passive. John unbuttoned his cuffs and stripped him of the shirt.  
  
Sherlock didn’t say anything, but his expression was pure lust, eyes flicking all over John’s face and chest. He licked his lips and – _thank god_ – they were kissing again, licking in and running his tongue against Sherlock’s. _Christ_ – everywhere, he wanted to feel him everywhere. He felt like he was going to jump out of his skin. He’d have to be careful not to hurt him.  
  
“Think of a safeword,” John said into his neck, and took a deep inhalation, drawing in that exotic sweet scent that was purely Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock slowly ran his fingertips up from John’s waist, over his shoulders and onto his face, holding their lips together.  
  
He opened his mouth and lightly licked at the tip of John’s tongue and said “seastar.”  
  
John pulled back and smirked. “Seastar?”  
  
“I assume your control over today’s activities doesn’t include veto power over my safeword?” Sherlock said with a cocked eyebrow.  
  
“Fine,” John gave a small head shake, leaned in and kissed him.  
  
Sherlock guided John’s head to the side and he leaned in. Not even bothering to prime him with kisses, he just bit down and then sucked up. Oh, this is going to be fun, John thought as his body leapt forward, grinding his cock into Sherlock’s.  
  
“Ahhh, Christ,” Sherlock moaned as he dove back into John’s mouth. His fingers went to John’s flies, scrambling to find it without breaking the contact of their lips and tongues.  
  
“No,” John said.  
  
Sherlock glared at him, but pulled his hands away.  
  
A manic feeling of joy bubbled up, but John didn’t let it escape. Not only was this actually happening, Sherlock was following the rules. He’s so beautiful, John thought, running both hands up that pale, smooth expanse of skin, one up, the other up, staggering them until he reached nipples and took light swipes, letting each finger pass over one at a time.   
  
He pushed off the counter, driving Sherlock back out of the bathroom. John and Sherlock both ripped off the comforter of the first bed and John pushed Sherlock down and crashed on top of him, pressing his mouth so hard against Sherlock’s, it was less like a kiss and more like an assault.  
  
He scooted down and undid Sherlock’s trousers. He folded down the material and kissed along the edge of his pants, looking up at Sherlock. He almost forgot to keep going. Sherlock was on his elbows, and god, he had been right. That intense focus was all on him and everything else fell away. The traffic sounds from the street receded and all he could hear was Sherlock’s breathing and his own blood, beating in his ears. His vision got foggy and he could see Sherlock’s lids were heavy.  
  
“Lift your hips,” his voice sounded husky to his own ears. He pulled down Sherlock’s pants and trousers together, causing his cock to spring free. John sat back on his heels to pull everything all the way off. He hooked two fingers into each sock and swiped them off, too.  
  
He decided to start there. He put 10 fingers on top of 10 toes and ran them lightly up his feet, wrapping them around his ankles, and then lifted one ankle and moved it out a bit, spreading Sherlock’s legs, settling between his feet. _Dear sweet Lord -- the view from here is mind-blowing._ He’d never hear the phrase “long and lean” without getting hard again.  
  
This afternoon -- yesterday -- when Caleb began to cut. He thought that was it. He knew he had wasted his life because he had never put his hands on Sherlock in a way that would show him that love is so much more than chemistry and that he deserved it. Then the pain had started and that wiped everything else from his mind. Now, the image of Caleb coming at him with scalpel in hand was on a loop before his eyes.  
  
“John,” Sherlock’s voice carried need with it.  
  
“Yes,” he licked his lips. “One second. I…I just need a second.”  
  
Sherlock looked concerned.  
  
“I’m fine, Sherlock.” He folded over and placed a kiss on one ankle, then the other.  
  
John had never given a blow job. He didn’t really know what he was doing, but from what he’d experienced on the other end, it really was mostly about being playful and enthusiastic, and paying attention to what the recipient is responding to.   
  
_I’m certainly enthusiastic. I’ve never wanted something in my mouth more._  
  
He bent down again, placing a kiss on each knee as he ran his hands up Sherlock’s shins, down behind each knee and then back up again, sliding, up, up, over thighs onto hips. He kept one hand on Sherlock’s bony hip, fingers digging, and with the other gave a sharp slap to the inside of a thigh, “Open,” he demanded.  
  
Sherlock sucked in a breath and dropped his head back as he spread his legs wide and thrust his pelvis up.  
  
“No moving,” John ordered, pressing down.  
  
John scooted in between and ran his hand under Sherlock’s balls, over and up, making sure to take his time sliding along the soft, hidden places. He bent over, breathed in deeply and ran his nose into the crease of his thigh. He smelled so bloody good John couldn’t help but want to taste him, too. He pulled one leg up and lined kisses down the inside of the knee, letting the kisses get more like sucks and bites as he kept moving down to the soft skin of Sherlock’s inner thigh. He tasted salty and alive. John could see a strong pulse in his thigh and he sunk his teeth into it and sucked hard, drawing the blood up to the surface. Sherlock whimpered and pushed his pelvis up.   
  
John reached under the raised knee and smacked Sherlock high on the back of his thigh.   
  
Sherlock let out a surprised squeak and narrowed his eyes.  
  
“Just for that, I’m not going to start sucking your cock for five more minutes.”  
  
Sherlock gritted his teeth and his legs started to tremble. He growled.  
  
“Do it again and I WILL turn you over and spank you like a petulant child, Sherlock. Don’t test me.”  
  
Sherlock whole body tensed as his back arched and his toes and fingers clenched.  
  
John’s vision almost whited out at how Sherlock’s body had responded to the suggestion of being spanked.  
  
“Oh jesus. You want that, don’t you?” John was having a lot of trouble making his eyes focus and he realized his fingernails were digging into Sherlock’s knee.  
  
Sherlock nodded his head, just once.  
  
“You want it more than a blow job?”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes darted away and he blushed.  
  
“You aren’t allowed to feel ashamed for something you want. And lucky for you, I very much want to smack your arse. I’m going to give you what you want.”  
  
Sherlock still looked guilty.  
  
“Turn over.”  
  
Sherlock flipped onto his stomach.  
  
John couldn’t tell if Sherlock was playing coy and shy or if he really was ashamed of wanting to be hit. Either way, John knew his role here. John grabbed Sherlock’s narrow hips and roughly pulled him up so his arse was in the air and he smiled when a whimper escaped Sherlock.  
  
John sat up on his knees beside Sherlock and before he had time to think too much about his inexperience -- or Sherlock’s experience with Victor -- he popped Sherlock on one round cheek. Sherlock jerked away slightly, but then turned to look at him with a smirk.  
  
 _Oh, really? You’re going to taunt me?_  
  
While Sherlock was still looking at him, he doubled down and smacked in the same spot, as hard as he could.  
  
Sherlock’s head fell between his arms and moaned.  
  
“Harder,” he whispered.  
  
“Fuck, Sherlock. I --”  
  
“Your belt. Red belt,” Sherlock said.  
  
John blinked.  
  
“The belt -- um,” John’s words failed him. He didn’t want to hurt him, but Sherlock on his hands and knees begging to be hit with a belt was making parts of his mind go off-line, like the part that said, “Danger.”  
  
John moved directly behind Sherlock and ran his hands up his back and pulled him into his lap by his shoulders.  
  
John whispered into his ear, “You’ve been thinking about that belt?”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock said, almost breathless.  
  
“For how long?”  
  
“Since the moment you put it on the checkout counter.”  
  
“You’ve been thinking about me hitting you with it?”  
  
Sherlock just nodded.  
  
“Then what?” John kissed his shoulder blade. “What happens after I beat your arse until it’s as red as the belt?”  
  
Sherlock’s head dropped back on John’s shoulder and John held onto his hips and ground slowly up into him.  
  
“Then you push your fingers into me and -- and, oh god -- open me up and fuck me up against the window, running your fingers over the welts,” Sherlock’s breathing was getting laboured. John’s arms were around his heaving chest. That was turning him on just as much as his words -- the fact that Sherlock was losing control just talking about being fucked.   
  
“Jesus christ, Sherlock,” John said. He needed to take this situation in hand. “God, I want that, too. A lot. But it’s our first time and I don’t want to hurt you. Not to mention that Mycroft almost certainly has someone watching our room.”  
  
Sherlock made an irritated noise.  
  
“John, we could be upstairs at Baker Street with your door closed and locked, the curtains drawn and the National Symphony playing “Ode to Joy” in the living room and Mycroft would still know exactly when we were having sex.”  
  
John chuckled. “Well, he’d certainly know we were trying to cover up something. Bit over-the-top, that.”  
  
Sherlock pulled out of his arms and turned to face him.  
  
“Hit me, John. I want to feel it when we’re talking to the NYPD,” Sherlock said. His confidence seemed to be back. “I know you want it, too, I saw your face when Irene told you about the St Andrew’s Cross.”  
  
John felt like he had just run 10 kilometres -- his heart pounded against his chest cavity. He got up, crossed the room and pulled his belt from his bag. Sherlock tracked him with wide eyes as he walked back toward him.  
  
The short time out of contact with Sherlock’s skin had allowed him to focus a bit more.   
  
“OK. I’m going to hurt you now. So much. Tell me your safeword again.”  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
  
“I’m not going to stop you, John,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Tell. Me. You stubborn twat,” John said. “I don’t know what you can take, and right now I’m so keyed up I feel like I am going to beat the fuck out of you. A belt -- I don’t really know what it will do to you. If you want to stop, for any reason, or just take a break, you use the damn word. Say it.”  
  
“Seastar,” Sherlock said, a bit stunned.  
  
John smiled his German Shepherd smile.  
  
“Good.”  
  
He pulled Sherlock off the bed and forced him up against the window.  
  
Sherlock put his hands on the glass and looked unseeing at the buildings spread below him.  
  
“There’s something else,” John said. “I’m not going to fuck you today.”  
  
Sherlock moaned and turned his head to look at him.  
  
“Why?”  
  
John smiled.  
  
“Because,” John leaned in and kissed him. He pulled away, just out of reach of Sherlock’s lips and kept his voice low. “After you are practically blacked out from the pain, I’m going to bring you back by sucking you off.”  
  
He reached down and wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s cock, jutting against his stomach. He lovingly stroked him and watched as Sherlock’s face showed pure pleasure. John felt a bloom of warmth at the sight. He reluctantly let go.  
  
“Turn around. Don’t move. Don’t instruct me or tell me how I’m doing it wrong.”  
  
He lined up and wrapped the belt around his hand, with just a short length hanging loose. He waited a beat to make sure he had himself in control and then swung. The belt landed slightly higher than he intended, but well below any dangerously fragile areas. He stopped and appraised his work. Pink blossomed in a thick stripe across both buttocks. John smiled.  
  
He swung again, aiming lower and landing pretty much where he had intended. A third landed off a bit, and only cut into one side. Sherlock sucked in sharply, but said nothing. John took a deep breath and adjusted his hold and tried again. That one was perfect and make a very satisfying “crack.” Sherlock practically yelped.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said.  
  
“I didn’t say you had to be quiet, I said you couldn’t tell me what to do. I want to hear you,” John said, cracking him again. Sherlock let out a soft, “ _Ngh_ ” and a shiver ran through his whole body.  
  
“Good,” John stepped up close to Sherlock’s side and wrapped an arm around and pressed himself against Sherlock’s hip. “I love that. It gets me hard to know I’ve hurt you enough for you to moan.”  
  
He rubbed his hand across Sherlock’s arse and Sherlock hissed.  
  
“Hit my back,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Dammit Sherlock, what did I just say?”  
  
Sherlock took a shaky breath.  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
“I’m not going to hit your back. Thighs are OK. Green?”  
  
Sherlock turned. “I’m allowed to answer questions about what I want but not tell you what I want?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“What’s the difference?”  
  
“The difference you answer my questions because I’m not a fucking mind reader, but I get to decide what happens. I’m in charge and I say that’s too dangerous.”  
  
Sherlock nodded.  
  
“Now. Thighs?”  
  
“Yes. Good,” Sherlock said.  
  
John stepped back and swung.  
  
As it landed with a _thwack_ across Sherlock’s thighs, Sherlock jerked and cried out with a sound that tailed off into a moan. John felt the same rush of power as when he had heard the crack of the bullwhip.  
  
John took a second to admire Sherlock’s beautiful form, hands on the glass and head between his arms, dark curls falling forward. The sun was well on its way up now. Several buildings had windows that faced them and his concern that Mycroft’s freelancer was watching the room -- or that anyone at all could see them -- was gone. He was happy to show off the effect he was having on Sherlock.  
  
“Anyone could look out a window and see you,” John growled, “but they can’t have you, and you can’t move unless I tell you, isn’t that right?”  
  
His ignored cock was aching. He allowed it to rub against Sherlock as he slowly trailed around his body to the other side. He flashed back to sitting awkwardly on the last hotel’s bed, Sherlock holding him through a panic attack and wondered at the distance between there and here.  
  
“Yes, John.”   
  
John whipped Sherlock’s arse hard, raising a large red welt and drawing another deep, seemingly unconscious noise from Sherlock.  
  
“Not good enough, Sherlock,” John said, and hit him twice, not giving Sherlock time to recover in between. “Look at me when I ask you a question. I’m the only one allowed to do this to you. I’m the one who determines what exactly you feel tonight -- how much pain you receive and when you are allowed to come. Isn’t that right?”  
  
Sherlock turned, but his eyes were unfocused. He was swaying a bit and he was covered in sweat.  
  
“You’re the only one who can do this to me,” Sherlock said, his breath hitching. “You control my pain and my pleasure.”  
  
Oh god. John’s knees almost gave out at that pronouncement. He brought his arm back and swung with all his might once and then again. Sherlock’s moan was positively ecstatic and he collapsed against the window.   
  
John dropped the belt and grabbed him, holding him up and kissing him while running his hands over the welts on his arse. Sherlock made low, rumbling noises until John pulled away, keeping one hand on Sherlock’s arm in case he needed the support. His expression held none of its usual arrogance. He looked fuzzy and completely lust-addled. John was sure his expression mirrored Sherlock’s.  
  
“Go to my bag and get out my bowtie,” John ordered.  
  



	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's been here before and he's always been a disappointment. Serial killers, he knows what to do with. Lovers? Not so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost 60,000 words later and I've finally finished my first Johnlock story. It's been months and months and I thank everyone who stuck with it, hit the kudos button and especially gave me feedback.
> 
> I don't have words to thank [HiddenLacuna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenLacuna), who is not only the reason I took the big leap from reader to writer, but encouraged me and gave me great advice. She was very gentle with me. She's really a wonderful, intelligent person and a talented writer, so go read her stuff.
> 
> This story isn't actually done. It's now the first part in a series called Skin and Bone. The second part is in progress and I don't intend to post until it's completed so there won't be long waits between each chapter. It's basically an excuse for more angst and much more sex, so stay tuned!

“Go to my bag and get out my bowtie,” John ordered.  
  
Without a word, Sherlock was halfway across the room before he realized he had retrieved the bowtie with unthinking obedience. He had a flash of annoyance at how far and how fast he’d fallen down this submission hole. It immediately disappeared with another command from John.  
  
“Get on the bed,” John said.  
  
Sherlock climbed on the bed, knowing John was watching the burning, red stripes on Sherlock’s arse. Allowing John to take control fit in perfectly with his therapeutic plan for John, and the role had fit John like a glove; but Sherlock hadn’t counted on his own submissive tendencies to override the logical part of himself, which might as well be bound in nylon rope right now.  
  
“Lay on your back, hands above your head,” John said.  
  
John crawled up beside him and took the bowtie, roughly knotting it around his wrists. Sherlock felt the sting from the marks left there by the zip ties. He lay there, floating on the endorphins and he realised he was rocking his hips, rubbing his raw arse against the bed.  
  
“Beg me to suck your cock,” John whispered in Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock arched up toward John. He’d been turned away from him and being face-to-face made Sherlock desperate and hungry for more.  
  
“Yes. Please, John. Please -- I need --” Sherlock couldn’t seem to complete a sentence. Three days ago, John’s voice was in his ear and in his head as Suzanne sucked him. Sherlock had thought that was as close as he would ever get to having John. Now, John was on his hands and knees over him, licking his lips and staring into his eyes with as much joy and affection as that night, but there was no one between them. If at all possible, it was even more terrifying.  
  
John didn’t look scared, despite Sherlock being sure this was his first time with a man. Sherlock felt relief flood through him as he watched John, looking sure and strong as he kissed each rib down to Sherlock’s hip and then ducked his head and licked the shiny tip of Sherlock’s cock like an ice cream cone. It jerked in his hand and John considered the taste for a minute … and then smiled up at Sherlock. He ran his tongue around the shaft just below the head. Sherlock let out a low “John” and John lifted his eyes to meet Sherlock’s just as he took him fully into his mouth.  
  
“Oh. _Oh_ ,” Sherlock said. Now John felt very far away. Seemingly reading his mind, John pulled Sherlock’s hands to the back of his head, creating a connection as he began to suck. John licked his hand and returned it to the base of Sherlock’s cock, pumping it slowly up and down, first in coordination with his mouth, then in the opposite direction.  
  
Sherlock tightened his hands in John’s hair and allowed himself the indulgence of this intimate moment -- John, focussed so intently on giving him pleasure, and making ungodly sinful noises as he did it. Every time he hummed, the vibration spread from Sherlock’s cock throughout the rest of his body like an electrical current -- cutting through the soft-fuzzy feeling that had washed over him when John was whipping him and making his skin buzz.  
  
The sound of John’s name escaped Sherlock. It was at least three syllables. He was both ashamed of himself and wanted to open all the windows and the door so others could hear.  
  
John pinched Sherlock’s thigh, which brought his attention back to him quickly. John looked at him from between his thighs.  
  
“Watch. Keep your eyes on me.”  
  
Sherlock nodded once and then, fumbling with his bound hands, he grabbed a couple more pillows to stuff behind his head.    
  
“It’s soon,” Sherlock warned.  
  
John looked up one more time.  
  
“I know,” he said, with a little smirk, leaning down to bite into the inside of his thigh (drawing a satisfyingly aggressive thrust), then pulling his hand up hard and fast twice before settling back down, creating a more steady, building rhythm with both his hand and mouth.  
  
Sherlock loved this, but he wanted to be on his knees for John. He wanted the soft, salty taste of John to fill his mouth. He desperately wanted to make him moan and cry out and forget about any other person who had been in that position. Make him forget about nightmares or panic attacks or anything that made him feel smaller than he was.  
  
John pushed a hand under one arsecheek and pressed into the tender welts and Sherlock’s moans became desperate and unconscious gasps, his body tensed and he was enveloped in pleasure.  
  
“ _Yesyesyesyesyes_ ,” Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and his head lolled to the side, but he popped right back up, remembering his instructions, and he watched as John’s swallowed Sherlock’s come, pulse after pulse, licking him clean. He launched himself at Sherlock’s mouth, kissing him deep and hard and pushing against him at every point -- God, how was it possible he still had his trousers on?  
  
“Touch me, Sherlock.” John gasped.  
  
Sherlock pushed him over and fumbled with John’s button.  
  
“Help me,” Sherlock said, the edge of desperation in his voice making him wince inwardly.

John ripped off his trousers and pants and Sherlock laid half on him, one leg slotted between John’s legs. Sherlock watched John’s face intently as he took his cock in his bound hands used the copious amounts of precum to slick his hands. He ran them slowly up and down, letting each finger catch slightly at the lip of the head as he tugged gently up.  
  
“Don’t tease me, you prat,” John said, “or I’m buying handcuffs as soon as we get home and locking you up for hours.”  
  
A violent shiver shook Sherlock and he blushed. John let out a surprised laugh and grinned at him like an idiot.  
  
“Oh, found another thing you like, did I?” John growled. “I can picture you in them. I’m going to lock you to my bed and make you watch as I pull myself off.”  
  
“Hmmm,” Sherlock hummed, “God yes. Untie me so I can touch you everywhere I want to.”  
  
John pulled hard to unknot the bowtie. Sherlock immediately reached down, tugged on his balls and then ran a finger around John’s arsehole and John seemed to lose all capacity thought for a second. He latched onto Sherlock’s shoulders.  
  
“I’ve dreamed so many times of having you in my screaming my name in my bed. I’d -- um -- I’d make you watch as I fucked my own fingers.”  
  
Sherlock moaned and nodded, his forehead pressed against John’s hair.  
  
“Tell me you want it.”  
  
“God, yes. I want,” Sherlock still hadn’t been able to catch his breath.  
  
John reached down and wrapped his own hand around Sherlock’s hand, squeezing tighter.  
  
“You’d be -- _uh_ \-- locked up. You’d be close, but not able to touch me. I’d -- _god_ \-- I’d stick my fingers -- two fingers -- in your mouth and then push them deep inside.”  
  
“Would you hit me first?”  
  
“You want me to lock you up when I hit you? -- _Faster_ ,” John gasped.  
  
“Yes. Please.”  
  
“With what?” John’s eyes were glowing; he loved this. Sherlock, meanwhile, felt at sea -- lost on hormones and exhaustion and, yes, arousal, despite coming just seconds ago. He was struggling to think clearly and keep his eyes open. John looked so gorgeous, shiny with sweat and Sherlock wished he could lick him all over.  
  
“Riding crop,” Sherlock leaned down and made do with licking the shell of John’s ear.  
  
“Oh, yes. That’d be so nice. I would hit your back. Make it hurt. And then I’d take it away -- fuck my fingers -- and call your name -- _hngh_ \-- _Sherlock_ \-- And imagine it was your cock inside of me.”  
  
John was talking himself to orgasm just as he had talked Sherlock to orgasm in Serpentine. He looked completely out of it. But Sherlock couldn’t help but notice that even in his fantasy, John wasn’t fucking Sherlock and wasn’t letting Sherlock fuck him.  
  
John’s breathing became noisy and jagged Sherlock’s concern disappeared. He found he could not think of anything else in the face of the overwhelming reality of John barreling toward orgasm.  
  
 _I want to make him come more than I ever wanted anything._  
  
“I’ve imagined it. It’s never -- _Ah_! -- never as good as this,” John said, running a hand over Sherlock’s chest. “So close. Make me come.”  
  
John moaned as Sherlock let go of his cock to lick his hand, partially to provide more lubrication and partially for the visual; and it worked -- John’s eyes got big and then he squeezed them shut and pressed up hard into Sherlock. Sherlock kissed John deeply, in rhythm with his hand and John’s hips.  
  
“Oh,” John gasped, dug his fingers into Sherlock’s biceps and yelled, “Sherlock! I -- GOD yes,” each word a thrust as come splashed Sherlock’s stomach and chest.  
  
They lay there for a minute or two as they gasped for air, until their breathing slowed and John found the strength to kiss a line up Sherlock’s cheekbone. Sherlock closed his eyes and luxuriated in the feeling of being sated and hurt and of John’s lips pressed to his temple, above one eyebrow, and right in the center of his forehead before dropping down to put a soft kiss on Sherlock’s lips. He pulled back with a smile on his face.  
  
“Alright?”  
  
“Yes. I could use a towel,” Sherlock said. Regret at his own foolishness was already starting to push in at the edges of his fuzzy comfort, but he hoped John would be distracted by his ministrations.  
  
“Coming right up,” John pushed off the bed, pulled the curtains shut, and went into the bathroom, returning with a hand towel, and used it to wipe Sherlock clean with great care.  
  
John pulled out a bottle of Paracetamol, got them a glass of water from the tap and grabbed the antibiotic ointment from the bathroom counter and came back to bed, where Sherlock had pulled the comforter over himself.  
  
John held out the pills and water. Sherlock took the water, but shook off the Paracetamol. He didn’t want to dull the sting. John took two, and drained the rest of the water.  
  
“Turn over,” John said.  
  
Sherlock sighed, but did as he was told. John pulled back the bedclothes.  
  
“Hurts?” John asked.  
  
“That’s rather the point.” Sherlock’s voice was muffled by a pillow.  
  
“Straight answers, please, smartarse.”  
  
“It’s fine.”  
  
Sherlock looked over his shoulder. There were several red and swollen welts, pleasantly aching, but only one angry red line that looked like it could benefit from the ointment. John rubbed it in gently, pulled the comforter back up to Sherlock’s shoulders and crawled in next to him.  
  
He stretched and yawned. Sherlock rolled over onto his back, using the movement to put a bit more room between them, but John reached out a hand and petted Sherlock’s arm.  
  
“You are unusually quiet,” John said.  
  
“Tired.”  
  
John hummed contentedly. Sherlock smiled at the ceiling, then pulled his arms up and ran his fingers over the half moons where John had dug in his fingernails as he came, just like when they had been at Serpentine.  
  
“You know, after sex, there’s a usually a bit of cuddling,” John said quietly with a smile.  
  
“That’s just the neurohormones talking John. You are a slave to oxytocin and prolactin.”  
  
“Yes, I am. Now, how about that cuddle?”  
  
  
\------------------------  
  
Sherlock’s mobile beeped twice and John’s three times before John finally couldn’t take it anymore and rolled away from their warm cocoon with a groan.  
  
“Mycroft says we’re expected,” John said, tossing Sherlock his phone on his way to the bathroom.  
  
They each showered and dressed in companionable silence, but Sherlock’s thoughts were a tangle. He felt completely irrational. He had made a decision and one kiss from John had shattered his will.  
  
They grabbed tea at the corner coffeeshop on their way to the NYPD station. Sherlock smirked as he watched John out of the corner of his eye. That John was happy and confident could easily be seen in the way he held himself as they walked down the street. When he was like this, other people could see the core of strength that he normally only showed Sherlock. He caught a woman in high heels eyeing John and shot her a disapproving glare.  
  
Sherlock huffed angrily. The conclusion he had come to last night was still valid. It was ridiculous to think he would be able to maintain a satisfying relationship with John. Being with John was better than he had hoped. But voices filled his head -- ones that told him he’d disappointed them. Those experiences told him emotional entanglements were far too messy and couldn’t exist on the same plane as his work. Of course, John was part of the work.  
  
 _I charted a path to rebuild his trust in me and in himself and I’m about to tear it all away._  
  
Best to get this over quickly. His stomach roiled and twisted. He squared his shoulders and adopted a professional tone.  
  
“I suppose you’ll want to debrief?” Sherlock said. He would say it was a mistake. He had made a mistake, and he would take responsibility for it.  
  
John smiled up at him.  
  
“You make it sound like a military maneuver,” John said.  
  
Sherlock admittedly felt outflanked. And hit by friendly fire.  
  
“What is the correct terminology then?” Sherlock said, drinking his abominable tea from a paper cup.  
  
“I don’t know -- the morning after chat? Except it’s the afternoon. I suppose we can’t do anything the normal way.”  
  
For a bit, they walked in silence.  
  
“So. You brought it up. Are you OK?” John asked.  
  
 _No. I feel every mark. I feel every line and every kiss like you burned them on me with a red-hot poker. It is fantastic and horrible._  
  
“Yes, fine. I told you last night.”  
  
“I didn’t mean like that.” John held his eyes. “Do you regret it?”  
  
 _Yes. No._  
  
Sherlock did not know his own mind and it was infuriating.  
  
Sherlock was suddenly very aware of his lips. They were not on John and that seemed wrong. John’s eyes grew increasingly shuttered the longer Sherlock looked at him without speaking. Sherlock couldn’t take it. There had to be another way.  
  
He stepped into John's space and kissed him, people streaming around them on the pavement.  
  
It was short, but sweet.  
  
“Of course not.”  
  
John looked up at him and smiled that smile that transformed his whole face, then reached up and tugged lightly on his scarf.  
  
 _Ridiculous, tender man._  
  
“Come along, John. We still have work to do. Serial killer on the loose.”  
  
\-------------------  
  
But the entire rest of the day was painful -- filled up with police officers and lawyers and Interpol agents, who came in at Sherlock’s request. He still needed to clear Molly’s name, after all -- that’s supposedly why he started this what seemed like months ago.  
  
John hovered on the edges, drinking bad police station coffee and joking with the lieutenant. Sherlock wiggled in his seat and watched him out of the corner of his eye as John slowly faded with the light. When the streetlights blinked on outside, Sherlock watched as John reached for his styrofoam cup and made (an adorable) bitter face.  
  
Sherlock struggled to return his attention to Mycroft’s hired gun, who said something about the international connections within Simon’s organization. John and a young officer started to make the rounds -- taking orders to send out for palatable coffee and dinner. John crossed the room to Sherlock as he wrote down orders from all the officers they’d spent the afternoon with. Considerate even when exhausted and -- by the look in his eyes as he approached Sherlock -- more than a little distracted.  
  
“You’re not going yourself, are you?” Sherlock asked.  
  
“Nope. Officer Stevens there said there’s just a place across the street that will bring it over to us. I put in an order for a medium coffee, black, three sugars. You need anything else? You haven’t eaten in years.”  
  
“Not hungry,” Sherlock said, noticing the edge of a bite mark on his neck below John’s collar.  
  
John narrowed his eyes. “One turkey sandwich, it is.”  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes and hid a smile as he returned his attention to the lawyer.  
  
Twenty minutes later, a spotty teenage boy in a dirty apron came through the door, laden with cardboard trays full of drinks and bags full of paper-wrapped sandwiches.  
  
John handed him his coffee and tossed a brown paper bag in his lap before turning to his own sandwich. Sherlock’s traitorous stomach gave a loud growl and John cocked an eyebrow at him.  
  
Sherlock pulled out the sandwich and something came with it -- suddenly, his senses are on high alert and he scanned the room. It’s a paper crane -- origami, a simple design, the kind where the head bobs when you pull the tail.  
  
It seemed to be a sheet of office paper with something printed on it. Sherlock carefully unfolded the crane, trying not to tear it. It’s an airline itinerary for a flight today -- Kennedy to Heathrow -- that left three hours ago.  
  
John is standing beside him.  
  
“Sherlock?”  
  
Sherlock handed it to him.  
  
“I don’t get it. It’s not Ir -- it’s not our friend.” John and he had spoken to Irene before walking to the police station and agreed she would fly west to hole up, far away from Caleb and what was sure to be a media frenzy.  
  
“No.”  
  
“The name is unfamiliar -- Augustus Defi. But it is clearly a message meant for me.”  
  
“How so?”  
  
“Origami. Telling me the sender knows I spent a good deal of time in Japan. Final destination is London, my home. Defi in French can mean game, challenge or mental obstacle.”  
  
“This is Caleb?”  
  
“Yes, I believe so”  
  
“Why would he go to London?” John questioned. “He admitted he was out of his element there. Is he trying to draw us away from New York for some reason?”  
  
“No. I think he enjoyed playing with us. He wants to continue the game; give himself a challenge.”  
  
“Then let’s go get him,” John said, eyes hard, but with a smile. Sherlock felt a burst of affection for him. He wanted to draw him down into his lap and run his tongue over his lips. His hand twitched toward him before he remembered himself.  
  
Sherlock turned to the lawyer.  
  
“We need to get back to London. Now.”  
  


**Author's Note:**

> The report Sherlock reads when doing research into the human tissues trade is real -- and graphic -- so don't click unless you have a strong stomach: [ http://www.icij.org/tissue](http://www.icij.org/tissue)


End file.
